Because of You
by Aranel Laerien
Summary: Legolas remembered great legends from the past; how no enemy had set foot in Greenwood and lived to tell the tale. But now, doom had fallen upon Mirkwood. And he could not do a thing about it... For the Teitho Challenge: Games People Play...
1. Alone

**Because of You**

Author: Aranel

* * *

Dedications and Disclaimers 

* * *

_Na Eru Ilúvatar, beleg Aran nîn, uir Adar nîn, sîdh-Oneth nîn, Megil nîn; aglar anuir na Le!_

_Na noss nîn, am meleth chin_

_Na gwethil nîn, an nad bân, a niel sí anim. Ú-natha  
erbado, ae non ú-tharn_.

Chapter 12's battle scenes are for my Society President

The poem of Chapter 14 was written lovingly for the encouragement of sell nîn, who should have been given it a long time ago.

And last but not least, this piece of fanfiction is for all my dear readers and friends.

* * *

**Warnings and Notes**  
Tolkien, not me, owns all Lord of the Rings–, The Hobbit– and The Silmarillion– canon characters, places and events. And no, canon items are not things that are fed into a cannon.

The story grows darker with time and includes quite some character death. You have been warned.

Whenever any form of love is mentioned, it is platonic love. I must emphasise, there is no slash implied, but some characters do get slashed, I mean cut, no, I mean injured.

Well, I tend to bend grammar rules a little if I want a certain effect; please pardon me for this.

I'm not a Medicine or Physics student nor an archer or a rider, neither am I a weapon-smith or anthropologist (or whoever studies the peoples of Middle-earth) nor an English or Tolkien expert – you get the picture – so please, please don't kill me for any errors... pointing them out nicely will do...

The geography of Mirkwood comes largely from my personal interpretation, which often proves erroneous. Once again, please pardon my mistakes.

Aragorn, Estel and Strider are one and the same; they are just used interchangeably.

It would be greatly appreciated if you could provide feedback on mistakes etc. in this work.

Once again, if you are easily disturbed by angst or dark tales, you are advised to avoid reading this or read with extra care. Please refer to point 2.

Enjoy the story and hope you can finish reading this  
rather "mammoth" story!

* * *

Chapter 1- Alone

* * *

_I only want to sing  
Is this too much to ask?  
Music, my hope will bring;  
In silence, despair falls as dusk._

_In this world of vanity,  
My heart wants no other thing.  
Is not sweet music more lovely?  
I only want to sing…_

The sweet elven voice sang softly in perfect pitch, drawing comfort from the beautiful melody. It was dark here, and he could barely see anything. He felt himself to be in an enclosure, with four stonewalls surrounding him. There was sufficient space to walk five paces from each wall, and though it was not his idea of a cosy room, it was far better than any other cell he had been in.

He sat on the stone floor, leaning against a cold wall, blond tresses falling before his face as he hugged his knees. He was still fuming mad. Tricked in his own home; he should have been more careful! A few days ago, he had fallen in through a well-concealed  
trapdoor in the floor; tricked and now trapped as the flap sprang upwards and shut him in.

Estel, Legolas thought for the millionth time, you're going to pay for this!

In the back of his mind, he still could not believe that Strider would leave him there for almost five days now. Strider had come suddenly to visit, and at the very first moment, had proposed this pointless game of hide-and-seek. Though thoroughly suspicious,  
Legolas had decided to play along. Strider, with his superior tracking skills, had not taken long to find Legolas (although he had been rather careful about leaving tracks), and without wasting time,  
the man had found a hiding place for himself. Legolas had then followed a faint trail that led across an empty room into another, and fallen after a few steps into the first room.

He had not done anything to deserve such a treatment. Wasn't his presence missed at all? They were in the Mirkwood palace. Someone should have noticed that their prince was missing, especially after  
almost a week.

Like who? he thought miserably, who could miss me?

Estel would, if he had not been the one who had locked him here. After the trapdoor had shut, he had heard the sounds of a key turning in a lock.

He used to think his father would wonder where he was. Used to. Not anymore. He sighed as he remembered his last conversation with his father.

* * *

Flashback

* * *

A sound from the next room woke Legolas from his sleep. Blinking a few times as he sat upright in bed, he heard the sound again. It was his father calling. Curious and worried, he entered his father's room cautiously.

"Ada?" he called softly. No response.

Thranduil's eyes were still glazed in sleep, but beads of sweat were forming on his brow. Legolas took a cloth from a nearby table and wiped them gently off. Without warning, Thranduil grabbed his wrist, vice-like.

"Laeglas, don't go!" Thranduil practically shouted, "don't leave me again!"

Legolas tensed involuntarily at the grip, his mind wondering who his father was calling. How many people shared a name with the same meaning as him?

"Ada?" he asked questioningly.

"Laeglas, stay, please," his father's tone was pleading, "just a while longer."

"Ada, I'm Legolas."

"Don't speak of your brother. You are you, not him, my dear son. I still remember, you showed so much promise, even though you were only 36 laer summers old when you passed on..."

Legolas listened quietly, hurt by what his father said. How could he be compared to someone who had barely seen the years go by? He had a brother? This he never knew. He was curious, yet he did not  
wish to hear his father say anything more. He felt he had heard enough.

But Thranduil went on, "Laeglas, you would have been our best scholar, healer and everything else. You would have been our finest king. You could have even been Mirkwood's finest archer! You can't just go and leave us all. No one can ever take your place,  
not even Legolas!"

Legolas felt the hot tears well up in his eyes. So, this was what he was. A replacement! So, he was to be the son that Thranduil had lost. He was to match up to what his father expected his brother to be. Legolas had never been Legolas. He was the epitome of  
Laeglas. Even his name indicated that. This explained so much! Every single mistake that he had made, no matter how minor, had brought upon serious consequences. Without exceptions.

Thranduil carried on talking, mumbling incomprehensibly at times. Legolas could take it no more. He let the tears fall onto his face, feeling each warm teardrop slip down his cheek, feeling the globule  
drip, hearing the soft splat as the bubble burst on the ground. Thranduil had long released Legolas' hand, but he had not bothered to wipe away the tears.

"What for?" he thought.

It was a whole assortment of emotions welling up within him, crying out to be released. There was anger, thinking about how immensely unfair things were and will be. There was grief, feeling how alone  
and lost he was, how much he yearned for warmth and comfort. There was frustration, remembering all these years when his father could never understand him and he wondered why. Legolas did not want to  
hide anything anymore. Anyone who saw him sobbing could say what they wanted. He did not care.

Then Thranduil awoke. The first thing he saw was Legolas tear-stained face.

"Legolas, what is it?"

Legolas was still overcome by his emotions. Unrestrained, he burst out in a long tirade,

"So all these years you have never cared for me, but for someone who is long dead, is it not? You have never wanted to consider my thoughts, my opinions, my feelings! You can call me selfish, but all I want is someone who actually cares about me! Whenever I talk to you, you give non-committal answers. When I tell you of the favourite things in my life, you give me that occasional smile or nod and only think of your work!"

"There are things that matter more than others. Do you think that your affairs matter more than the kingdom's?"

"I know I am not that important, but I have always done my best to obey you. Can you not spare just an hour of your time? Have you even tried to understand me? Do you even care about me?" the pain and betrayal he felt was clearly evident in his speech.

"Of course I care for you, and you shall stop this nonsense. You do as you are told, and not as you wish, Legolas. If it be your will to defy me, then I shall see it stopped."

Legolas was stunned.

So I matter as much as another of your subjects, he thought.

Somewhat confused, he raised his voice further, the words tumbling out of his mouth,

"You are my father! We aren't supposed to be like this! We only have each other!"

"That would not have happened if Laeglas and your nana was around. But – "

"Whenever you see me, you only remember that your wife and son have died and you blame me for it! Have you ever let me be myself, and not what you perceive someone to be? Have you ever given me a chance to prove my worth? Why won't you even let me try?" Legolas' voice carried much bitterness in it.

"Give me a reason why I should."

"Because I am your son!"

Another silence. Thranduil seemed to be considering what Legolas said. Perhaps he had been just too irritated at being woken up from sleep. Perhaps he had not meant what he said. Perhaps –

Thranduil spoke again, and all hopes that Legolas held on to were dashed,

"You can try your best, but you will never ever be perfect–"

That was all Legolas heard as he stormed out of the room to a sleepless night and more tears.

* * *

End of Flashback

* * *

His eyes were now brimming with tears that had sprung up anew. He thought he would not feel anything at the recollections. He thought he had accepted it, acknowledged it, but he knew Estel had broken him; the man had broken his resolve not to weep. He had learned to release every single emotion bottling up in him, and he could not go back any more.

His whole life had been like a game. If he behaved as what his brother did, he would be spared, if not, he lost. Perhaps, if his mother were here, she might have helped him somewhat, but now, there was no chance of winning at all. He sought for some form of comfort, but the empty room gave him none. This had perhaps been a cellar, but was now vacated. Other than an empty barrel in a corner, there was nothing. Perhaps he could reach the flap if he could drag the barrel, climb onto it and jump the remaining distance, but he did not bother to try; he would never make it, and  
even if he did, he may not be able to keep it open long enough to get out.

Most importantly, there was no point in it.

Because of you, he thought, because of all of you.

He had no idea how he managed to survive without food and water for so long. He felt weak all over, but other than that, nothing else. Five whole days on his own. He had had ample time to think and reflect on every incident in his life, but he only thought of one  
thing: he was so caged in life that it did not matter whether he left this hole. He sang again, slowly, hanging onto each and every word as though it was his lifeline,

_Retire sweetly for the night  
Every hurt and weary soul now mends.  
Strong exceedingly is Your might,  
The stars forever are Your friends._

tbc...


	2. Assurance and Despair

Chapter 2 – Assurance and Despair

* * *

"In learning you will teach and in teaching you will learn," Elrond was speaking to his sons, "remember, this is not a contest to see who can train the greatest number of elves, but a learning experience for all of you."

"Yes, _ada_," three voices replied simultaneously.

Elrond motioned for them to go. Estel, Elladan and Elrohir then moved to three groups, on separate areas of the field.

It is not completely worth the time and effort, Strider thought, to have to re-learn the basics of archery when I've been spending years hunting and can still remain alive!

Even so, he did not complain. He did not mind more practice, or a correction of erroneous posture. After all, there had to be a reason for his tendency to shoot trees, instead of what was beside them. Upon reflection, he decided that he ought to pay close attention and at least find a way to obtain an eighty-percent accuracy, not including trees.

However, his main purpose here was to learn to teach. He was to help in the training of young warriors, all of whom had lived longer than him, and he definitely had much to learn in this respect. He had to identify problems in posture or judgement solely based on where the arrows landed, and that was proving increasingly difficult to do.

Yet, this appeared to be something that Glorfindel apparently did with great ease. Strider sighed. Would he ever be as good as him or the other trainers? He sighed again as Glorfindel gently nudged an elbow higher and tilted another head slightly.

"Leithio i philinn!" Glorfindel gave the command. /Release the arrows/

Six bowstrings sang in unison as the arrows found their mark.

"Mae carnen//Well done/" Glorfindel commented, and walked towards Estel, passing him a bow and quiver, "try with them, Estel."

Estel was uncertain as to how to react, and this must have showed through as Glorfindel thrust the weapon into his hand, motioned to the target and grinned. Suddenly, Estel felt that he knew what was Glorfindel's parting present to the Balrog he had slain in the First Age.

"Wouldn't it be interesting for them to see their future trainer fumble on his first shot?" Estel mumbled wryly under his breath.

Glorfindel's grin grew inexplicably wider. Strider decided to turn away and brave the dangers. After all, he should have learned something after all the _accidental_ peeks into and strolls by the archery field.

_Nock_. He ensured the arrow would not fall off the string and raised the bow with a steady hand. _Draw_. He pulled the bowstring from the bow, slowly, steadily, feeling his shoulder blades almost touch. He anchored his fingers below his chin, and found himself almost tasting the string, which was not what he would currently consider as appealing. _Aim_. He looked down the arrow, adjusting until he saw it align perfectly to the target, then raised the bow a little and moved it slightly left to allow for wind and everything else that would affect the trajectory of the arrow.

Now to put what he had just observed into practice. He held the bow in that position, feeling the tension in his muscles. His arms were straight enough, yet not too tense, and his head was tilted to the hopefully right angle. _Release_. This was it.

Glorfindel had once spoken of a more natural release, and now, he relaxed his hold on the bowstring, moving his right hand as though to scratch the back of his neck, feeling the string slip off his fingers. He held his position until he heard the soft thud of the arrow. Releasing the rest of his held breath, he was glad to see that his arrow had hit home; home, on the target, not in the direction of any tree--houses or tree trunks.

"Well done, Estel," Glorfindel complimented him, "I've never known you to be this good."

The other elves looked at him with newfound respect.

Estel beamed and felt his face flush red the next second.

"I guess you learn as you grow."

"Don't get too smug, here, you watch Tithiol and Dariel."

The elves laughed cheerfully as the session continued. Strider gave a sigh of relief and turned his attention to the two elves nearer to him. It sure felt good to be able to be the one nudging an arm into place or straightening a back.

* * *

Elladan and Elrohir were having a much easier time than Estel, but all three were tired when the session was over, and unanimously voted for resting on the nearby steps.

"I understand what _ada_ meant when he said that we learn as we teach," Elladan said with a sigh, "I've never had to figure out all the intricacies of the posture until now."

"Well, I learnt that I'm still pretty fast in releasing arrows," Elrohir put in contentedly.

"And I found out that I can _actually_ avoid shooting trees," Strider could not resist sharing, eliciting a laugh from the twins.

"If only Legolas were here. He is almost a whole week late," a wistful elf looked towards Mirkwood.

"Elrohir, you don't have to be so impatient. Legolas isn't the sort who would break agreements with friends," Strider teased.

"Legolas is rarely late. He has been known to be earlier than later," Elladan said with a frown.

"Perhaps he was delayed?" Strider asked.

"Then he should have found a way to send a message!" Elrohir shared his twin's concerns.

Elladan spoke again, "I can only think of a few possibilities, and they do not bode well."

Estel shuddered; Elladan had spoken what was in his mind. Although he and Legolas had only met a while ago, he did cherish the friendship. They had braved through countless dangers together, especially since trouble always sought to find them wherever they went, and he would spare no effort to ensure Legolas' safety. He wasn't happy, though, that he was not the first to voice his concerns.

"What is it that has caused my sons such worry?" Elrond asked lightly, sitting beside them on the stairs.

Elladan answered for them, "_Ada_, it is Legolas. He's been about a week late, and we're concerned that something has happened."

"But isn't it normal to be a little late?" Estel cut in, not wanting to have to change his stand.

"You have known him for slightly less than a year. Do you consider yourself to know him well?" Elrond allowed himself a little chuckle to the annoyance of his sons.

"Both of you may be right," he paused for a moment, "I have seen disturbing events befall Mirkwood. Take twenty warriors with you. You will set off at first light."

"But –" Strider began, and only got a shushing motion from Elrond.

Elrond stood up and left the younger ones to their own devices, smiling amusedly as he caught their shocked expressions at his seemingly hasty decision. In reality, his dreams had been haunting him. Night after night he had seen Mirkwood overrun by darkness, and every last elf falling under the sword. He had not liked anything that he had seen. For the past weeks, he had contemplated sending a patrol unit to find out if all had been well, but had wondered about its necessity.

Now, an opportunity had presented itself to him. Twenty-three warriors – he smiled at his accounting of Estel as one of them – should be enough to deal with small to moderate scale attacks. Would it be sufficient? He hoped he did not have to find out. Sending huge groups was suspicious and he was not willing to strip Imladris of her defences just for a perceived threat.

Elrond sighed, his face marred by worry. There were long days ahead.

* * *

Strider leaned against the balustrade, unable to sleep. He had a nagging feeling about Legolas, which he could barely ignore, but he forced it down. He had no idea why he was behaving in such a petty and grumpy manner.

Perhaps the lack of sleep over the past week has something to do with it, he thought, although he would never admit this to the elves (who enjoyed teasing him about his grumpiness due to insufficient rest).

Elrond and the twins were much older and wiser than he, but that did not mean they knew everything, did it? How could anything have happened to Legolas? If something had indeed happened, Estel, being the young, ignorant human he was, would not – no, would _never_ – be able to help.

Estel thumped his fist hard against the balcony railing, feeling it resonate under the force. He could not explain exactly what he felt. He was confused. Deep within him, some unimaginably strong fountain of energy was insisting on being let out.

Yes, Legolas was Elladan and Elrohir's friend as well. They had known him for a far longer time, but his remarks _were_ valid too. Why had they been brushed off without much consideration or explanation? Yet, he felt that this was not what irked him most. He felt weak, inadequate, incapable. Often when he was beside them, he felt his imperfections stare glaringly brightly at him.

They _always_ knew what to do. They _always_ could help when they wanted to. Even in his year spent with Legolas, it had mostly been Legolas getting him out of tight spots. _Legolas_ helping him! His turn would _never_ come, because if it did, he would do the wrong thing. How could _he_ ever help Legolas? It had never been a fair game, so to speak.

There was another thump on the stone, much stronger than the previous one. The shock waves spread to the floor, and he could feel it pounding under his feet.

"My son, why are you not asleep?" a soft voice called from behind him.

Estel froze, wondering how long Elrond had been there. Then, on impulsive, he rushed into Elrond's outstretched arms, just as he had always done when he was still a young child, yearning for comfort, yearning for reassurance.

"_Ada_…" he let his voice trail off, not knowing how to start.

Elrond patted him gently on his back, "Dwell not on such things, my son, or you shall only knock too hard on the balustrade and bring Imladris crashing down."

Estel reciprocated the smile Elrond gave, though his was a cross between guilt and amusement, "I guess I'm not as grown as I like to think I am."

Elrond looked at him fondly in the eye, "Estel, you're stronger than you think, much, much stronger."

"Then why do I need help all my life?"

A slight pause. Then softly, "Because even the strongest being needs help."

Strider looked away, uncertain of, and unwilling to come to terms with his thoughts. His heart was beating fast.

"Estel, I have foreseen that Mirkwood needs help. Looking for Legolas might put you in a position to help. You know in your heart that Legolas needs help. My son, go and do what you can."

By now, Estel had calmed down reasonably, and was in far more control of himself.

"But I don't think I can help," he said after a long while.

"Still, you are more than you think, my son. You are, of us, the last to see Legolas. When Eru has put you in a position to help, trust that He will show you how."

Estel sighed lightly as he pondered over what Elrond had said.

"Don't play down on your hand in things. This may not be humility, but pride to seek recognition, and self-centredness to seek pity and praises," Elrond continued, ignoring Estel's stiffening body, "you are ill-pleased that Elladan and Elrohir seem to know more and care more about Legolas."

Estel walked back to the railing, slowly, trying to formulate his thoughts before finally giving an evasive answer, "I don't know, _ada_."

Elrond clasped a hand on Estel's shoulder, "Face facts, Estel. Putting things away does not make them disappear," he paused for a moment to let his words sink in, "at the very least, trust our judgment and foresight. Most of all, trust Eru."

Elrond patted the man gently, "Sleep soon, my son"

The elf left, hoping that the man understood him. There was nothing else that he could do. Estel had to think things through alone, and find his own conviction.

As Elrond left, Estel seemed to have changed completely; he saw the truth in Elrond's words. For a moment, he nearly laughed at his foolishness. Sighing once more, he leaned on the railing, seeking out the familiar constellations glittering in the sky. He remembered what Legolas had said about each one of them, how they had brought hope and comfort when he found none, how they had reached into the innermost part of his soul when nothing else could.

A smile found its way to his face at the fond memories. Snatches of a song Legolas had sung over and over surfaced in his mind. He had loved the acrostic nature of the song, especially since one stanza bore his name.

_**H**onourable traveller of old  
__**O**ver all the worlds doth fly.  
__**P**resence more valuable than gold,  
__**E**ternal gem in the sky._

He smiled again, as the song replayed again and again in his head. Things would work out well, the way they always did.

"Because of you, gwador nîn//my sworn brother/" he whispered into the night, "because of you, I'll try."

* * *

Legolas wondered if anyone would pass this way. He had been here for twelve days, or so he thought. With no view of external events, his only contact with the outside world was through a young green sapling, growing from within a gap in the wall. He tried to tend to it, but he himself was not in a state any better than the plant.

He felt weaker by the day. If food and water were not given to him, his strength would not be replenished. In fact, he had felt a little dizzy just trying to sit up. Still not forgetting to release his daily mental outburst – concerning Estel's treachery – now done more in habit than anything else, he managed to raise himself from the corner he had fallen asleep in.

There was something else in the room. A piece of hard, stale bread, and a small canteen of water had been thrown from above. Despite his usual concerns about staleness, he devoured the food, remembering to save a little extra, should the rations cease. The same applied to the water. This was the second time he had been fed. Fed like some caged animal.

Estel sure knows how to test elven extremities, he thought. Everything that had happened was because of that human. Refreshed and strengthened, he leaned against the wall to think. Again.

Something always did not feel right. Deep down, he knew it. Estel would _not_ leave him to die, or dump such food at him. When Strider and he had chanced upon prison conditions, the human had insisted that the jailors feed the prisoners with fresh sustenance and politely. (The jailors' shocked expression had been priceless.) Strider would _not_ have found such crazy pleasure in locking him up. Even though he barely knew the _adan_, as compared to the elves he grew up with, he could and would willingly vouch for Estel's character.

Then it all struck him.

He had been so gullible! How could he ever…

* * *

Flashback

* * *

"Legolas! I'm so glad I found you! Strider has turned up at the palace!" Himorn, his close friend shouted as he rode towards him. Legolas had already left the borders of Mirkwood the previous day, and was planning to take the one-week-long journey from there to Imladris.

Strider was at Mirkwood? That was simply unbelievable. He knew full well that Legolas was going to Imladris. Why would he come? Deciding it might be for something important, Legolas rode for the palace at full speed.

Fast as he was, Legolas only reached the palace by aduial /time of star-appearing/ the next day. The man was waiting impatiently in the hall. He was hooded, his body concealed in a long cloak.

"You are Strider?" Legolas asked apprehensively.

"Don't you recognise me?" The man laughed, "to think you said we were brothers!"

"Goheno nin/Forgive me/" Legolas said, "moe loston. /it is necessary I rest; I am tired/"

Another laugh, "I don't believe you would ever admit that! So as compensation, play a little game with me. See how well I know your palace now! You can try to hide, but I'll still find you!"

And that had begun that seemingly pointless game.

* * *

End of Flashback

* * *

What a convenient way to roam unrestricted about the palace! Any number of accomplices could have turned up and harmed his father then. How could he have been so foolish!

His thoughts flew to his father. He had never given him a chance to explain. He had merely assumed, and bombarded his father with groundless accusations, based merely on what his father had spoken in his sleep! Now it suddenly seemed impossible that his father would not love him. The older elf only spoke in such a manner, because he had always been matter-of-fact, blunt, stubborn and proud! And Legolas was not that much different.

What would his mother think of this if she had witnessed this?

Legolas now wept anew, letting wave after wave of sorrow and regret send his body into uncontrolled spasms. He rocked himself lightly and hugged his knees closer to himself. What would his actions lead to? Would Mirkwood suffer, all because of him? And Estel. How would he feel when he found out that Legolas had been thus ready to wrong him!

Legolas hoped for some comfort, some aid. He was not ashamed to admit it now.

He wanted to see the trees, the skies, the stars. He could hear the trees whisper his name. He could hear them call out to him, offering solace within them. And the stars! Oh, they were so beautiful. Blinking at him, singing sweetly! They always reminded him of Eru, and that brought him a strange, immense peace. His cries began to subside.

He began to sing again, still wrenched in sobs, but the tune was flowing on,

_Shining brightly as the sun,  
__Twinkling, glistering without rest,  
__Always submitting to no one,  
__Ready as ever to stand the test._

_Honourable traveller of old  
__Over all the worlds doth fly.  
__Presence more valuable than gold,  
__Eternal gem in the sky._

_Retire sweetly for the night  
__Every hurt and weary soul now mends.  
__Strong exceedingly is Your might,  
__The stars forever are Your friends._

_Take me to the hills,  
__Raise me to see the stars.  
__Undying hope my heart now fills,  
__Shining as though nothing mars.  
__Then my heart to no fear yields…_

On and on he sang, until he felt tired enough to sleep. The melancholic tune lingered in the air even as sleep washed over him, hovering in the air throughout the night.

tbc...


	3. Past, Present, Future

* * *

Chapter 3- Past, Present, Future

* * *

Thranduil stared at the hastily scrawled letter lying on the table. He had already read it again and again over the past week, but he could not tell if he should trust it totally. After all, he was a suspicious person by nature. That was one reason for his harsh words to Legolas.

He had always disliked being found in an unguarded state, and Legolas shouting at him once he awoke did not help. Of course, his own stubborn pride meant that Legolas would receive an earful from him, but he barely meant anything he had said. Well, perhaps just some of it.

He had not enjoyed being thus questioned and Legolas' refusal to let him speak merely antagonised him further. He knew that he had never been good with words, especially with his son, thus often causing misunderstandings. He would very willingly take back those words, spoken in a fit of rage, if he could.

Sighing, he turned back to the letter. So, Legolas had decided to break his usual convention and address him as _King_ Thranduil, and sign off as _Prince_ Legolas?

How interesting, he thought, for a mere conversation to affect him thus!

But it was not surprising, for it was no mere conversation. He himself had mentally replayed the conversation many times through, thinking of what he _should_ have said. They had not spoken since then, and Thranduil did not even remember seeing Legolas at all in recent days.

The letter mentioned that Legolas had received a report on spiders moving northwards and had decided to confirm the rumours. Should there be a need to send for reinforcements, Legolas would send someone to inform him. Thranduil was still pondering over the letter when a servant peered through.

"My Lord, there is a letter for you."

"Who sent it?" Thranduil asked, eyeing the folded parchment suspiciously.

"My Lord, it was a cloaked elf. He passed it to the guard, said it was urgent and rode off."

"No one know who that was?"

"No, my Lord."

Thranduil dismissed him and read the letter immediately.

_Father,_

_I hope you have read my previous letter. Please send as much help as quickly as you can to the South. The spiders have been growing bold, and the rumours are true. We await you near the East Bight._

_Legolas_

The two letters bore the same scrawls, Thranduil noticed. They were probably written on the same piece of parchment as well, but that was no great cause for worry. It was not uncommon to bring parchment on a reconnaissance trip, but still…

Thranduil decided to call a council. This matter did not concern him alone.

A council, he thought, but this time, Laeglas _and _Legolas would be missing.

* * *

"How soon can we reach the palace?" Strider asked, returning his packing checklist to an elf.

"Our messengers make the journey in two weeks. You should be no slower," Glorfindel gave a rough estimate, not wanting to raise the man's hopes too much.

"It would be wise to hurry," Elrond added, "a day of travel is a day delayed."

"Is everyone ready?" Elladan called out.

Strider scrambled over to mount his horse. Elladan, Elrohir and he were responsible for medical help, and he had packed a whole variety of cordials and herbs to treat everything from _morgul_ poisoning to flu (which was indeed more serious for the human and thus dangerous to elves around him). The other elves carried fewer herbs, but made up for that by a larger portion of food, _miruvor_ and other necessities, which included two extra sets of weapons.

Elrond looked at the departing company. He and Glorfindel had asked for volunteers and over fifty had come forward. They had to short-list them, based on family commitments and their levels of training. Elrond deeply hoped that all of them would be able to return home alive and well, but that was never a certainty.

"May the Valar watch over you and prosper your path," Elrond blessed the assembled group, watching as they galloped through the entrance of Imladris. Glorfindel stood beside his liege, watching Elrond questioningly as he stood motionless, staring down the path.

"Si pan gerim ceri na deri, mellon nîn." /Now, all we have to do is wait, my friend./

Elrond nodded slightly, turning with a smile, and they walked back into the compound, a slight wind stirring the trees.

* * *

Thranduil made two further copies of the letters and folded them all neatly on the table. The breeze was blowing gently in from the window, ruffling his hair somewhat. He called for two messengers, and gave them instructions.

"Gilion, you will take this to Imladris, and Calamir, make for Lothlórien," Thranduil paused to pass them the copies.

Just then, the wind blew, hard, wrenching the letters from Thranduil's hand. The two messengers promptly gathered the fallen messages, and having been told who would form their armed escort, they went on their errand.

Thranduil leaned back against the chair and sighed. In recent days, he had been doing too much of that. Another gust of wind scattered more stationery onto the floor. It was a windy day, just as another day some three thousand over years ago.

* * *

Flashback

* * *

"Himorn! Himorn! It's law class now!" A young elf came running up, panting heavily, blond hair all tussled up and falling before his face.

Himorn clamped his book in a near panic. Jumping up from the bench he was sitting in, he took off running, dragging the exhausted elf with him.

"Isn't Law's at _aduial_?"

"You've forgotten? Master Istaril said to reach four hours before that!" Laeglas was replying between pants.

The elves crashed through the woods, running like the wind, and _not_ appreciating the teasing laughter of the trees. The Palace and School were separated by a three-quarter-hour's walk, and neither of the elves were in the least pleased by this. Silver and blond hair flew out behind the elves as they urged themselves to move faster.

"Shall we run through the archery field? It's faster!" Himorn could only think of the admonition that awaited him, and poor Laeglas, should they be late. Law class had always been Laeglas' favourite, although Master Istaril was probably the strictest being he had ever met. This favouring had also been due to a conversation that the elf-child had overheard.

"Laeglas is a promising student," Master Istaril had told King Thranduil, "you will leave the government in good hands."

King Thranduil had agreed (but said that Laeglas had a long way to go, considering his age and that he could barely shoot straight), and before long, he had given Laeglas some simpler administrative work to do. Laeglas' performance had impressed Thranduil so greatly that the latter had promised he would allow Laeglas to sit in for the next council meeting, subject, of course, to what Master Istaril thought of him in today's class.

All the more reason to hurry, Himorn thought, it is not fit for him to jeopardise his chances because of me!

Laeglas, however, was not as keen to risk the field. Much as he wanted to be on time, considering the implications being late, he would rather lose the chance and receive the lectures. At least no one could die from being reprimanded, but all they needed was a stray arrow…

Himorn could not be bothered. It seemed as though he was more desperate than Laeglas now.

"If they're practicing, then let's play a game," Himorn challenged, "first one to catch five flying arrows wins!"

Laeglas' eyes grew wide with shock. He would have preferred ducking the arrows than trying to catch them, but Himorn was always up for a challenge. He tried to sigh while running, but in his completely breathless state, was finding that hard.

Himorn knew better than to oppose Laeglas. That elven-princeling had the tenacity of his father as well as the stern looks and commanding voice. But Laeglas had not spoken, and Himorn was getting overly impatient. Besides, the archery instructor, Master Cuorn was kind, never minding but almost enjoying the antics of the students. The archery class could do with a break too!

The two elves ran towards the field, not slowing down. The class _was_ having a practice then. From a distance, Himorn could see them drawing their bows. As the arrows flew, Himorn noticed that one was much slower than the other six. He guessed that the elf-child had not drawn the bow sufficiently, or perhaps screwed up on the release.

They made it to the field in time for the second volley. By now, Himorn had planned which five to gather and calculated the exact distance and speed he needed. Laeglas, however, stuck with his decision to dash past the arrows, and was even more firmly assured that Himorn _was_ crazed.

The arrows were released.

With untiring feet, Himorn sprang up, catching two arrows at a time, then as he half-spun he caught the third. Still in the air, he turned, grabbing two more arrows, one in each hand. He landed, turning to Laeglas, who was moving from the edge of the field, with a smug smile on his face.

Which was wiped out almost instantly.

Time slowed down.

A strong wind blew. Of all times, it blew then.

The arrow hit him.

The last, weakly drawn bow had sung.

The arrow struck him in the back, but with the wind and his turning movement aiding it, had gone deep into his body.

Laeglas' requiem, his death-song, had been sung.

And his funeral march had begun.

Everyone stood motionless and shocked. A breeze blew gently by, plucking fresh green leaves from the branches. The leaves fluttered slowly down. Petals floated onto the ground, as though paving the way for some procession.

Then time resumed its normal course.

Laeglas' face contorted in pain as the blood gushed out from him. He felt weak all over, and numbed, as though his body was no longer his to control.

"Why did you do it? Why did you try to save me!" Himorn was screaming and crying, "you are a prince! What am I, Laeglas!"

Because you are who you are, Laeglas tried to say. But only a choking sound came out.

His body felt heavier and heavier, while his head grew light, dots of varying colours dancing before his eyes. The ground floated up towards him, looking like a piece of greyish-brown mosaic, and he reached a hand to touch it. But his hand barely moved. Something was happening, he knew. Someone was doing something to his back, and something was wrong with him.

Then he found himself in Master Cuorn's arms, looking up at a grim face.

He caught snatches of conversation, "…through his heart… carry him…"

He found himself supported and moved, or rather flown through the air. His face was turned towards the sky, but he was forced to close his eyes partially at its brightness. He felt tired.

Perhaps I should sleep, he thought, things always get better after a nap.

But the pain was excruciating, though it was becoming number with each passing moment and he barely felt it now. Something else was keeping him awake, a voice of an unknown origin forbidding him to rest. He obeyed it for a while, two voices pitting their strength against each other until his head ached. Then he found he could not remember what had kept him awake.

His eyes registered the healing wing.

_Ada_ and _nana_, he thought, they're here too.

The fear of being scolded flashed through his mind as he was lowered gently onto a soft white bed.

Nana's carrying a little elven-princeling, his mind told him, how adorable!

A small smile found its way to his face as the child looked wide-eyed at him and smiled.

Then the pain overwhelmed him again, and every muscle in his body tensed and hurt. Badly. A strange gasping, choking sound was coming from his mouth. He could see blurs of colours as the elves moved around him. They were such dizzying images. He closed his eyes, trying to shut them out.

"Laeglas! Laeglas!" Some voices called urgently, but he ignored them.

He felt almost comfortable. He was drifting, floating in air, moving aimlessly, just enjoying every moment of it. The pain was gone now. He saw greyish blurs before him. Curiously, he went towards them, feeling that it was the right thing to do, although his mind told him otherwise.

The infant in the next bed cried.

A flash of lightning, the roar thunder and relentless pouring rain broke the silence.

The healer shook his head.

"E gwanna." /He departs./

Only the wind moved.

That same strong wind.

Dried leaves were blown and tossed about the floor.

The row of candles flickered and went out, leaving the room in greyness.

Legolas cried on.

* * *

End of Flashback

* * *

Nothing much had happened after that. The entire kingdom had mourned for the dead Prince whom they all loved and adored. The child had shown much prospect and now all that was gone. Thranduil witnessed his wife, Laeglas' mother, weakened by the birth of the elf-child, struggle to keep herself from falling apart.

In the end she had left, sailing to the West two mere days after everything had happened. The healer, Harthar followed her after his failure to persuade her otherwise. His heart had bled at how the Prince died to save his son, and he was unable to help in return.

Things had then begun returning to their normal course; except for some small changes, everything was the same. Himorn and Master Cuorn rarely laughed now. Master Istaril was much less strict than before. Himorn pledged service to the royal family, leaving his healer profession to join the Royal Guards as soon as he was able. An elf, Carasgon, grew mad with the unfolding events and was eventually exiled from the Realm. And Calenlas Cuornion and Legolas Thranduilion grew up under the shadow.

"Don't let me lose you too, Legolas," Thranduil whispered to the dying wind.

Legolas watched as the sapling transformed into a yellowish-brown twig and left. It had whispered hope and encouragement even before its short life ended, but its death told a tale of helplessness and despair. Legolas touched the lifeless plant, feeling its sorrow and cold.

A still-green leaf sailed through the air and fell on the floor.

tbc...


	4. A Shadow Has Fallen

* * *

Chapter 4- A Shadow Has Fallen

* * *

The Forest River meandered from Ered Mithrin, the Grey Mountains, before flowing into the Long Lake. The river was sparkling invitingly, but the cloaked figure noticed none of these. He only thought of how fitting its source was – grey for death.

"Lord Carasgon? We are ready," an elf to his right informed him.

Carasgon merely nodded.

Finally, he thought, finally.

After thousands of years planning this in exile, he had finally obtained this chance to carry out his revenge. Almost three thousand years ago, his first attempt had failed, thwarted by a mere elf-child. Subconsciously, he moved his hand to his side, feeling an infuriating deep scar in his flesh.

* * *

Flashback

* * *

The elf-child was hundred and seventy-six years old, or rather, young. He had grown close to Carasgon over the years, since he was more than his Medicine teacher but his confidant too, and Carasgon had been only too happy about it.

From this naïve child, he could obtain valuable, hard-to-get information and opportunities. The child told him everything from the little scrapes and escapades he had and how unhappy he was with his father. In fact, he had even developed a soft spot for the child. The child was just born when everything happened. Perhaps he would spare him when the attack came.

Today was the day of the reunion feast. The entire kingdom was to spend the day with their families. As a result, there were almost no servants or guards around. It was perfect. Carasgon stood in the doorway and waited. Perfect.

It was a moonless night, and only a few stars were twinkling. The sky had been overcast even before _aduial_, and would be till _minuial_. Perfect, he thought again, reaching for his hunting knife. A small blade, it was light, easy to hide and would do the job well. This would follow him, hidden in his long robes as he made his way to the Palace.

That elf-child had invited him, knowing that he did not have much of a family to share dinner with.

How foolish! Carasgon thought with a twisted smile.

The older elf prepared a sumptuous dinner and Carasgon had to admit that he was amazed at his culinary skills. He grew more impatient as time went on, but managed to smile, nod and respond to what the two said. Finally the elf-child left for bed.

Carasgon waited a while, ensuring the child would not return. The older elf was thanking him for his care of the elf-child and was proposing a toast to him. Carasgon numbly responded, his mind still on the best spot to strike. His opponent was stronger and much more seasoned in battle than he was. He could never win by brute strength. Then just as that elf raised his glass to drink, Carasgon saw his chance.

The other put the glass to his lips. Carasgon followed, the other hand finding the knife. The elf tilted his glass somewhat. Carasgon jumped up, his left hand releasing the knife, right hand still holding his wineglass. The other's face was locked in an expression of shock and betrayal. He started to lower the glass, but he would be too slow, too late.

The blade flew swiftly across the table, past the candlestick, causing the flames to flicker, over another dish…

Carasgon's smile slowly widened. Then, the impact.

Carasgon's face tensed at the pain in his side, and the blood pouring out from where some arrow had struck. He looked up and saw his blade hit by another arrow, lying dented, harmlessly on the floor. He saw the archer's cold, hard stare. He felt his breathing weakening fast with shock and pain.

"Why?" he managed to croak.

"Because you threatened my _ada_," an icy cold voice replied.

Carasgon frowned deeply in confusion, before his vision grew black. As he was drifting off, he heard,

"Don't worry, _ada_, I didn't pull hard or hit anything much. He'll be fine."

Some comfort that was.

He would remember that elf-child forever. Legolas. He had lost the first round, but he would be better prepared and come again. And no one would be spared this time.

* * *

End of Flashback

* * *

He _was_ better prepared. Now he had an army. And he had learnt two secret spells from the Necromancer's minions. He had raised the stakes of this round. It was not just Thranduil. It was the entire Mirkwood. _They_ had sent him into exile. Anyone who would not obey him would _not_ be spared.

The first spell had worked very well indeed. His army would have to follow him since the only way they could be spared from pain was to submit. He had been given the chance to test out both spells, and found out that even the strongest gave in to the pain after five days. At least that was true unless he prolonged their lives with a drop of the drink from his cordial or gave them the secret antidote.

He walked along the river, moving upstream. The warriors were all further South, which meant he did not have to worry much about them. As for the spiders, he had promised a large quantity of elven flesh, and they agreed readily on his terms. The Forest River was the life-blood of the wood-elves. Most took their water from the tributary leading underground to the palace, and water was used for almost everything, by almost everyone.

He stopped, satisfied with this place, and recited the first spell in the black tongue. His ears no longer burned from sound of the harsh language, and neither did his head ache, unlike the time before his exile.

"Exile," he remembered, "how could Mirkwood so wrong me!"

He could not see why they never seemed to understand, no matter how many times he explained it to them. It was so obvious to him who was right, but apparently it was not so with them; they still continued to shield the king. Either way, they would awake to find a lovely day ahead. He grinned manically.

* * *

"Elladan, are you sure this is the way?" Estel had asked.

"For the umpteenth time, yes," Elladan had then answered impatiently, "Elrohir and I found this path before you were born and have been using it ever since."

Elrohir had joked, "Estel, you don't mean to say that you'd rather delay our arrival any further do you?"

Strider could see that they were right. He could see the Anduin ahead and after that would be Mirkwood. They had been travelling for four days without much of a break. Although he had napped at every break, a skill he had learned when he was Strider, Ranger of the North, the elves had only slept once. Strider suspected that they had taken turns to sleep while riding.

All twenty-three of them knew they could not go on like this infinitely, but they were willing, more than willing to push themselves to the extremes, because of Mirkwood, because of Lord Elrond. They knew his fears to be true, and they would do all that was in their power to save their own kind, even though that did not exactly apply to Strider.

They had moved fast, refreshing themselves and changing steeds if needs be, at the messenger posts they had passed. Strider's mount, Roheryn was one of the _pererrych_ or perhaps even the _errych_, and did not tire easily. A few horses had gone lame under the hard riding, sustaining cuts or bruises, and there were those that carried sprains, but the messenger posts were always thankfully nearby when that happened.

/Pererrych are horses of Valinorean and Beleriand cross-breed, not as capable as the _Errych_, but valued above most other horses available in Middle-earth. The Errych are horses of Valinor, famed for speed, intelligence and everything else./

The posts had always fascinated Strider. Much like the beacons of Gondor, they employed a relay system where messengers would ride to the next post and pass the messages to others who would go on to another post. In this way, the elves and beasts were not worn out, and the messages reached their destination faster than if the journey were completed by merely one tired group of elves.

The Rivendell envoy began to slow down. After a while, Strider found out why: a Silvan elf riding towards them was calling to Elladan, Elrohir and himself.

"I bring a message from King Thranduil to Elrond and his sons. Will you receive it?" Gilion asked.

Elladan unfolded the letter, reading it and frowned deeply. Elrohir took the letter from him.

"Legolas?" He asked unbelievingly.

Strider, who was reading the letter over Elrohir's shoulder was lost in deliberation, deep in thought.

Gilion stared in disbelief, "Oh no," he exclaimed softly.

Everyone turned to face him.

"The wind," Gilion was stammering, "it blew the message away."

There was silence for a moment. Then Strider asked,

"What do you know of this letter?"

"Prince Legolas sent this to the king. About two weeks later, he made reference to this and asked for strong military support to the East Bight," Gilion answered.

"But Legolas could not have written this," Strider interjected in an even tone, "he writes far more neatly."

"If he were in a hurry, he might have done away with neatness," Elrohir pointed out.

"No," Strider said firmly, "I know that you would know him better, but there was this time last year when we had to leave the palace quickly to respond to a spider threat. Legolas had insisted on writing clearly. He said it was worth sacrificing a few seconds to ensure that the recipient could decipher the handwriting."

"Estel, you're sure –" Elladan began.

"And he would not call his father by his name or use the formal titles," Estel finished.

"My Lords," Gilion felt he should inform them, "it is generally believed throughout the realm that the Prince and King have not been on exactly good terms when Prince Legolas left. If the Prince still has his haughty spirit, he might not have used his usual address."

Estel knew the answer to that as well, "He has given his word that no matter how angry or upset he may be, he would give his father the respect a son should."

The elves nodded, trusting the human's judgement. Something was going on then. Legolas had shared many of his innermost thoughts with the man, even some that they had not been let into. If Estel saw reason for worry, they would consider it valid.

"You say that Legolas left. Where did he head to, and when?" Elladan asked.

Gilion shook his head sadly, "No one knows. Not even the King. In fact, none of us have heard from the Prince since Strider came," Gilion paused to think a moment, "that means two and a half weeks."

Strider's face wore a mystified look, "When was I at Mirkwood?"

"You – You were with us the whole while!" Elrohir exclaimed.

They looked at each other, worry and fear showing clearly on their faces. Gilion's armed escort and the twenty warriors also feeling the unease creeping up. There was a long silence as each contemplated what it could mean. Even at the edge of the Anduin, the tense, close atmosphere of Mirkwood could be felt.

"Something has happened," Elladan finally said, albeit redundantly.

* * *

"My Lord, the elves have been riding hard. We got the other messenger but missed this one. He must have told them something."

"Let them come. Unless they can identify and break the spell, they will only add to the death toll. A great waste of life, actually."

"And the messenger?"

"Even if Elrond Peredhel sets off personally for Mirkwood, his long journey would render him useless. We have much better things to do."

* * *

The Lady Galadriel filled a silver pitcher with water. Rising gracefully, she tipped it, allowing the clear, sparkling fluid flow into a shallow basin. She looked deep into the water, seeing things no one else could, her fair face marred with worry.

The Lord Celeborn draped an arm gently across her shoulders, a grim look on his face.

"It is as you feared," he said. A statement, not a question.

Galadriel nodded pensively, "Haldir has led fifty soldiers into Mirkwood. He will aid the Mirkwood Army re-group."

"Imladris sends from the North, we send from the South. May the three elven kingdoms unite against the unrepentant traitor," Celeborn sighed. "would the armies be enough?"

"Yes," Galadriel said in a sure tone, "because they will do their best; because of their kinsmen, because of Elvendom on Earth."

tbc...


	5. Light in Dark Places

* * *

Chapter 5 – Light in Dark Places

* * *

Legolas was barely visible in the darkness of his hole. His natural glow was diminishing as his body weakened, physically, emotionally, spiritually. From young, he had been more sensitive to the outside world than most others, even his own kin, but that, at times, was a bane as well for, he saw much sadness too.

Although his eyes bore that merry and playful tint, they were deep and saw far and much. Legolas had an unusual air of _gravitas_ around him, despite his wee years. Yet, he was young at heart, youthful in spirit.

But he knew much.

He understood much.

And he could tell what this all meant: doom had fallen upon Mirkwood.

Mirkwood was _once_ Greenwood the Great. Those were beautiful days and peaceful nights. Those were refreshing springs and warm winters. Those were seasons of laughter and merry-making. Legolas remembered great legends from the past; how no enemy had ever set foot in Greenwood and lived to tell the tale, how not a single spot of black speckled the green trees.

But that was in the past.

Now, Greenwood was _Taur-e-__Ndaedelos_/Forest of Great Fear/ it was Mirkwood.

Even so, some of the beauty had remained. The rabbits hopped from tuft to tuft, the deers negotiated agilely round trees, the squirrels flew up tree trunks, the birds nested in high leaves and sang, the bees clamoured for sweet nectar…

And the elves! They wove through the forest, travelling on ground and in the trees. They listened to the life around them, the helpless murmurs of claustrophobic darkness swarming Rhovanioin. The elves gave love and comfort, and received care and protection in turn.

But they laughed no more.

The Necromancer had changed everything, the same way his master, Morgoth, had corrupted Middle-earth. Greenwood the Great, like Dorthonion of the First Age, had become known as _Taur-nu-Fuin_. / Forest of Nightshade/

The heart of some trees remained pure, but they lay covered in ash. Others had changed totally; even deep down, till there was little beauty in them, and they were mere hollow shrouds lingering in gloom. Most animals remained true, but the spiders, the brood of _Ungoliant_, the fearsome terror of the Early Days, infested the land.

The forest spoke of a veiled menace, but everyone knew its name: Evil. Elves have seen the failing of their home; elves have fallen into despair and sailed for homely comfort in the Undying Lands.

But the Necromancer did not have absolute power. The stars remained untouched. On and on they twinkled in the blackness, beacons of light in the dark sky and darkened hearts, bringing hope to the lost and weary.

_**S**hining brightly as the sun,  
__**T**winkling, glistering without rest,  
__**A**lways submitting to no one,  
__**R**eady as ever to stand the test._

Legolas sang the song again. It was the only ray of light he could now see, and he now held on desperately to it. It was something that he had written, based on what he had thought his mother would sing. His memory of her was very faint, and he could only remember the feeling of comfort, but nothing else.

He remembered other sweet carefree times in the past, times that were now so distant, though they were only a year ago, how he and Estel had gone star-gazing, and how Estel had –

Oh, Estel! He could not resist laughing. Even in this dark prison, he laughed. And laughter never sounded so good, never felt so good. Even the cell felt so suddenly alive and warm. He laughed again, enjoying the sensation, thinking back to a time when laughter was something taken for granted…

* * *

Flashback

* * *

It was an unusually warm winter night, but Legolas would not let the human out without him wearing an extra cloak.

"I told you, I _don't_ need this," Estel was still complaining as Legolas held his hands down such that he could not remove the cloak, "what's the fun of winter without its coolness?"

Legolas smiled with mirth. It was rather interesting to see how many times Estel could repeat the same thing. Fourteen now. Estel did not enjoy being treated as a child; this Legolas could tell just by the once-in-five-minute complains.

"All right," Legolas finally relented, "just take it off and spare my poor ears."

Estel looked as though he was a child who was promised a lifetime's supply of candy.

And he promptly sneezed.

The cloak went back on a scowling human.

They climbed a mound and sat on its summit. The ground was almost entirely white, with small patches of green in between. Though low, the mound offered an excellent panoramic view of their surroundings. To one side was a sea of green leaves and multihued flowers, or at least what would have been that if it were not winter. From their vantage point, they saw that a cushion of pure, unblemished white spread around them. The sun had set some time ago, a red radiant disc finding its way home. Now, star after star peeked out through the sky, each one shining brighter as time wore on.

* * *

End of Flashback

* * *

"Aduial," Legolas whispered, "the time the stars appear."

He could see them now if he looked up. Above him, small sparks of light were forming.

Then he blinked.

The stars floated away, dissolving into the blackness of the cell.

* * *

Flashback

* * *

"What would the sky look like without stars?" Estel, the curious adan was asking.

Legolas leaned backwards and lay on his back, not feeling any discomfort although the snow melt and seeped in slowly through his clothes.

"It would be all black; dark without a glimmer of light, and all who walk beneath would be in shadows without hope," he said.

Estel turned quizzically at his friend, cautiously lying down.

Legolas continued to speak, "You, gwador nîn, are like a star of hope. You bring light to those around you, and if you fail your duty, the shadow will take over."

Strider fell silent. This was the last topic he wanted to bring up, or even think about, yet Legolas was forcing him to face it.

"You cannot hide from your destiny," Legolas answered the unspoken question, turning to Strider with a smile.

Strider shook his head, "There is so much more that I need to know. I cannot bear such responsibility."

"Not yet," Legolas conceded, "but the time will come, when you will know what to do."

Estel mumbled something that resembled "You sound like _ada_".

Legolas himself knew the responsibilities and burdens that awaited Strider. Thranduil had expected much of Legolas, and repeated his expectations over and over again, and there were many, many times when he felt he would just break under all that weight, all that load. But he had looked to the stars and heavens and all had become well.

"Gwador nîn, when in doubt, look above you, look at Eru's many creations. If he can create them, arrange for their care, it will not be hard for Him to give you aid. Let this thought always comfort you."

Strider only felt his breathing relax gradually and a sweet peace veering him, as Legolas' words reached his mind and heart.

"Hannon le, gwador nîn/ I thank you, my brother/" he said, "a phan. /for everything./"

Legolas smiled and turned his attention upwards.

"Look at that, Estel," Legolas pointed, "that's _Gil-Estel_, the star of your ancestor…"

Legolas went on and on about the other stars and constellations. Estel interspersed the conversation with some comments and thoughts, inwardly laughing at Legolas' enthusiasm.

"There, see the two a little away from _Gil-Estel_? That's _Gil-Gwend_ – the stars of friendship,"

"One is larger than the other. Perhaps you will find an acquaintance with a dwarf," Estel teased, yawning and stretching lazily.

"No, that'd better not be," Legolas laughed, imagining the shock on his father's face and the inevitable lecture should that happen.

"_Gil-Meleth_ shines brightly tonight," Legolas added, "do you know, Estel, you will only see _Gil-Meleth_ if certain other stars are around? And it can move nearer to _Gil-Noss_, _Gil-Gwend_ and _Gil-Melethron_."

Legolas paused and added an afterthought, "It was shining brightly when we first met."

"So which star was it closer to?" Estel's voice had a slurred quality in it.

"In the exact centre between _Gil-Noss_ and _Gil-Gwend_," Legolas stated without much hesitation, "do you know my people have a song on the stars?"

"There must be hundreds of songs on them. Why am I not surprised?" Estel was beginning to sound inaudible and incoherent, "Sing for me, then."

Legolas took a good look at the human (getting a rather irritated glare from him) and sang.

_**S**hining brightly as the sun,  
__**T**winkling, glistering without rest,  
__**A**lways submitting to no one,  
__**R**eady as ever to stand the test._

_**H**onourable traveller of old  
__**O**ver all the worlds doth fly.  
__**P**resence more valuable than gold,  
__**E**ternal gem in the sky._

_**R**etire sweetly for the night  
__**E**very hurt and weary soul now mends.  
__**S**trong exceedingly is Your might,  
__**T**he stars forever are Your friends._

_**T**ake me to the hills,  
__**R**aise me to see the stars.  
__**U**ndying hope my heart now fills,  
__**S**hining as though nothing mars.  
__**T**hen my heart to no fear yields._

Legolas paused, feeling the soothing melody stir tenderly within him.

"This song is special because I wrote it," Legolas said softly.

Then, receiving no reply, Legolas turned sharply towards Estel.

"Estel?" he asked.

The man's eyes were closed in sleep, his breathing regular and even. Legolas watched his chest heave rhythmically before bursting out in light laughter,

"Humans, it seems, would never be able to remain awake for long past bed-time!"

* * *

End of Flashback

* * *

Legolas felt a chuckle escape from his throat. Of course, Estel had insisted that he had heard every last word Legolas said. Of course, Estel denied even falling asleep. But knowing the man's restless spirit and stubborn nature, Legolas knew better than to believe him.

Soft padded footsteps pervaded his thoughts, and reminded him of where he was. Legolas' confinement for the past weeks had sharpened his senses such that he could hear much more clearly than before.

There were soft whispers descending through the walls.

"Himorn, tell me this. Legolas would not ask that we send the females and children to fight, would he?"

"No, my Lord. He never would."

A pause.

"Sire, I've been meaning to ask you this for a while: Are you sure these letters are from Legolas?"

_Ada_? Legolas thought, Himorn?

Legolas almost froze in shock as he realised what he was sensing. Where were they? He wondered what they were doing on this side of the Palace, but considering his hearing, they might have been anywhere.

He called out, "_Ada_! Himorn! Im sí/ I am here./"

Again and again he called, fervently wishing, desperately hoping that they would hear.

The whispers grew fainter.

His throat was drying fast, and his voice growing hoarse, but this was his only chance. He shouted on.

The footsteps died away.

"_Ada_…Himorn…" Legolas' voice trailed away as well.

Things felt worse now that he could have had been let out. If he could hear them, they must have been able to hear him! Why didn't they notice? Why was this hope given to him, dangled in front of him, and so cruelly snatched away!

Then he calmed down. Himorn had mentioned his letters. Legolas could not remember such an event. He hardly wrote, so, if he did, he should have been able to recall it. And Himorn was right. He would _never_, _ever_ send the females and elf-children to the uncertainty of the battlefield.

What is going on? Legolas wanted to scream and scream until he got an answer.

Then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, as if going on its own course, his mind began to sing,

_Because of You, my Friend true,  
__Blessed, my heart is no longer blue.  
__Before I leave, anything I'll do,  
__Because of You; I'll sing for You._

He calmed down so quickly that he could barely comprehend the change that had just taken place within him.

But he got a partial answer through his dazed mind.

Doom had fallen upon Mirkwood.

* * *

"My Lady!" Lord Celeborn gasped softly as Lady Galadriel swayed unsteadily, stumbling in her walk across the grass.

She accepted his hand and sat on a nearby bench.

"Mirkwood is falling," she said sadly, "the King has sent his people to their deaths, the Prince has given up hope, and everyone in Mirkwood, perhaps except for Prince Legolas, is oblivious to the danger."

"Does Elrond not help enough?" Celeborn did not wish to see his beloved in such a weakened state.

Galadriel laughed lightly despite her weariness, "He _seems_ to have been very busy recently, or at least very busy trying to guide Estel to be of much help."

Celeborn smiled in sympathy and asked, "Is that not also a form of help?"

"That is much else to be done, and it is not all he can do. So, it would seem that the _peredhel_ has left me to deal with the rest on my own," Galadriel sounded almost as though she was complaining, which in fact, was rather close to the truth. He would be paid back in full when the time came.

"It is not prudent to tire yourself overmuch," Celeborn gently admonished her.

"Aye, but there is one last thing I ought to attend to before I rest," Galadriel responded with quiet determination.

* * *

Himorn felt a great unease settle over him. He thought he had heard Legolas' voice, but the King had shown no any sign of hearing it, and he had held his peace. Now, he walked swiftly back home. He had not seen Legolas for a long while, and he knew that before any trip, Legolas would always inform him accordingly.

As a guard of the royal house, Himorn was to accompany Legolas whenever he went on trips, and though the Prince could be adamant about solo journeys, he would still inform Himorn to avoid giving him trouble. Himorn would usually be told not to follow – an order that was, at times, never followed. Of course, Himorn would tail the Prince for a distance before _coincidentally_ meeting him. Legolas knew his tricks, but having been friends for millennia, he generally welcomed the company.

The recent spate of events had left Himorn thoroughly confused. Legolas had disappeared, without any single indication, asked for the Mirkwood army and now the civilians to battle the spiders. Then, many elves throughout the realm had been showing symptoms of poisoning since the previous day. If this went on, there would be more poisoned elves than healthy ones. Himorn did not know what to make of these, or even if they were related, but he could tell that things were not looking good.

Check on the safe house, his mind told him. And he might as well do that, since he had the rest of the day to waste.

The safe house was known only to a select group of people: King Thranduil, Prince Legolas, Himorn the Chief of the Royal Guards, Gilion the Chief Messenger, Calenlas, the Chief Archer, Brondil the Chief Healer, Osgaron the Chief Builder, Melanel the Chief Servant and Estel the elf-friend. All nine have been sworn to secrecy and the upkeep of the house had been done in the most discreet manner.

Himorn located Calenlas, gathered some supplies and they began the journey to the secret place.

"How are your mother and sister doing?" Calenlas asked.

"Not good, if you ask me. They have been in great pain, and for all my father and uncle have taught me, I can't help them," Himorn said resignedly.

Calenlas gave him an assuring pat, "Don't worry about that. No one can do anything about it yet, but we will find a way."

"How does your father fare?" Himorn asked in turn.

"The same," Calenlas could not reply otherwise.

There was a brief silence before Calenlas asked, "What do you make of this poisoning?"

"I do not know," Himorn frowned, "judging from the spread, it could be the water. It may have been enchanted."

Calenlas nodded, "I have not drunk from the river since yesterday, but my father has, and is now unwell."

They discussed a little further about the symptoms. It was as though there was no family in Mirkwood that had not at least one casualty.

By now, they had reached the safe house, or rather safe tree. The tree had a hollow, which allowed for massive storage of supplies, and its leaves shielded anyone hiding nearby from prying, unfriendly eyes. The greenery there was dense, but the leaves would part should an enemy attempt to seek cover.

The two elves tensed as they heard movement and quickly hid behind a nearby bush. The trees were unusually silent, refusing to give them any warning or assurance, as though playing a joke on them. Calenlas drew his bow, and Himorn's hand moved to silently unsheathe one of his twin daggers.

Still silent.

There was not even any birdcall. Then they saw the figure moving stealthily towards the supplies. A quick check showed that the lone figure did not have any backup.

An exchanged nod.

A finger pointing.

Another nod.

And action.

Having been such close friends for so many years, no words were necessary for the coordination. Himorn rounded the tree from the right, Calenlas from the left.

Yet another nod.

The two elves moved in unison, weapons ready, towards the figure now caught between them. But nothing could have prepared them for the shock as the figure turned.

tbc...


	6. Water

* * *

Chapter 6 – Water

* * *

"Elladan, this is the last of our water. He needs more than this!" Elrohir whispered fiercely as he rode, trying to keep himself in line with his twin.

"What other choice do we have? Give this to him, and hope to Eru that we reach the river quickly," Elladan replied in _sotto voce_.

The journey had taken its toil on all of them, especially Estel, and especially on this last leg. They had gone without rest for a full day and night since meeting Gilion and his escorts, and even the elves were starting to tire. Estel's body, however, weakened greatly. He was running a temperature and was perpetually drained and lethargic.

The twins had been trying to infuse the human with water to bring down the fever, but they knew that what he truly needed was rest, not merely fluids. Yet, they could not afford to even slow down for that. None of them wanted a delay, and this was especially so with Strider. But they _had_ to stop.

Elladan called for a halt while Elrohir dismounted and went towards Estel, offering him the water.

"Is this all we have left?" Estel asked weakly.

Elrohir nodded and looked away. "But once we reach the river, we can refill our canteens," he added.

Strider pushed the water away.

"I know some place here where there is water. I will go there, but no one is to follow," Strider's resolution showed through his mumbled speech.

Elrohir nodded in understanding. The _adan_ had once spoken of a 'secret place' supposedly known only to a handful of Mirkwood's nobility and himself.

"Are you certain you know the way?" Elrohir asked.

"I am not totally sure, but I believe I can find it."

"So be it. Be careful, gwador nîn," Elladan had joined them by then.

"Going into an unknown place alone, just for a drop of water?" Elrohir asked in disbelief as Strider left, "and feverish as well?"

Elladan was silent for a while. Then he spoke, "I do not think it is merely because of water."

A pause.

"Something tells him to go, and he will, because of his destiny, because of his love."

* * *

Estel barely knew where he was. At this stage, he was only following his numb mind's instructions.

Turn left.

Turn right.

Straight ahead.

Turn…

Then he saw it.

The tree.

He dismounted, leaving Roheryn some distance back. He knew that a call would bring the horse over in a flash, and should there be hostile parties around, Roheryn, at least, might have a chance to flee.

Strider noted the unnatural silence of the wood. There was no wind, no rustling leaves, no swaying branches. The animals were silent and hidden. A deer flitted quickly from his sight as soon as he had spotted it. The tension in the air was cramming and choking around the inhabitants of the wood. He longed for a sound, anything to break the stifling silence.

He heard nothing.

He crept forward, grimacing as the crunch of a dried leaf resonated through the forest.

That was not the sound he had hoped for. Perhaps silence would have been better.

He hid quickly behind a clump of bushes. He heard a soft, shifting sound, so soft that he quickly dismissed it as a figment of his imagination. He waited there, tensing as the minutes wore on.

The evening sun filtered through the canopy, not roasting him, yet he was begin to sweat profusely. Perhaps that was a good sign since it meant his fever was retreating. Finally he decided to move. He made his way forward, towards the tree again, reached a hand forwards and –

"Daro/Halt/"

Strider turned to find himself staring down the arrow of a strung bow. A quick look from the corner of his eye revealed a readied blade. Then he saw the owners of the weapons.

"Calenlas! Himorn! It is I, Strider!" He was so glad to see them.

But they did not share his sentiments.

"Strider? Why are you still here? You –" Himorn began to ask.

Strider silenced him, "Listen, my friend, I have known about this and it _is_ I, whether you believe it or nil. My brothers and the warriors from Rivendell are near this place. They can testify for me. The person you saw was not I but one in disguise."

The elves were uncertain if they should believe him.

"There's only one way to find out," Calenlas decided, praying that they were not falling for any trap, "take us to your brothers."

Strider summoned Roheryn and whispered something into his ear, hoping that the horse would at least know the way. The steed began to walk in a particular direction, and the trio followed him.

"May I presume you do not know the way back?" Himorn asked for both of them.

Strider had been much revived after he ate the offered lembas and drank the wine.

"I would have to say so," he answered, a light blush creeping to the surface of his skin.

The elves laughed aloud. Estel scowled in a reasonably good imitation of Legolas, which only caused the elves to laugh harder.

"This is interesting," Calenlas finally regained his composure, "you're trying to imitate Legolas, who tried to imitate his father!"

And Estel, though still rather giddy, but being the brother of Elladan and Elrohir, could only think of one thing to do: he made a playful swipe at Calenlas.

Himorn did not seem to want to be left out, "Roheryn's obedience, your adoption of Legolas' and the twins' habits do prove your identity. And did I mention that dirt on you and having the tendency to lose your direction?"

Which brought Estel on his heels, and promptly sent everyone into a laughing fit, the human included, though more unwillingly.

"So, Strider, what brings you here?" Himorn asked.

Estel related his side of the story in brief: Legolas' lateness, Elrond's concerns and Gilion's swapped message.

"It would seem that I was right; Legolas did not write the letters," Himorn concluded.

Calenlas only sighed and they walked in silence until they found the Imladris company. Estel was immensely glad that Roheryn knew the way. After the polite greetings, they started on the topic close to all of their hearts.

"What has happened in Mirkwood?" Elladan asked.

The two Silvan elves looked troubled as they told what they knew. However, the episode that concerned the brothers most was the poisoning.

"Your water comes from the Forest River?" Elrohir asked.

A nod from the elves.

"We'll take you there if you wish," Calenlas offered.

It was a largely silent journey. None of them knew exactly what to say, and it was Strider who finally voiced his concerns, "Has Mirkwood been warned about the water?"

"No," Himorn sighed, "Calenlas and I only suspect it. We do not have any evidence to convince the people."

Strider nodded grimly, "They _must_ be warned."

"Yes, but you have to find a way to make them believe you."

Strider fell silent, deep in thought again.

Elladan asked, "How are the poisoned treated?"

"We are using a sleeping potion to ease their pain," Himorn answered, being better versed in medicine.

"That will _not_ be enough," Elrohir cut in, "have you any _athelas_?"

"We've tried feeding it to them, but it seems only to cause them more pain."

They could see the river from here, still sparkling in the evening sun. It looked the same as ever. There was its placid appearance, its lively glitters, the light dancing on the water as though illuminating a sea of _mithril_, the rhythmic and coaxing flow of the river. Nothing seemed amiss.

Strider bent low for a better look at the riverbank. There were no signs of herbs or powder being added to the river. Then, his attuned eyes caught something else: boot-prints in the soft grass.

There were light ones, like an elf's and others heavy as human's. They were recently made, at most two days ago. Strider was sure that the prints had not been just left by themselves.

He tried to reconstruct the events mentally. An elf had led about two other elves and twelve men here. The leader then walked towards the river, while the others scattered around the area, perhaps to check for enemy action. The leader had paused at the edge for a long while, after which an elf joined him. The prints in the mud gave him a fair idea of the duration they were there. The leader, probably for up to a quarter hour, while the elf was there for a much shorter time.

It was only then that Strider noticed the grass lining the river was dead.

Elladan and Elrohir looked over their brother's findings, proud with his meticulous work and sound deductions. Strider was truly being the Ranger he was, and learning well. Upon impulse, Strider dipped a silver needle he always carried with him into the water. It came out black.

"Poisoned," Strider stated, "this is proof enough."

"What kind of poison is that?" Calenlas asked.

"It is unlike anything that we have seen," Himorn added his input, "I think it may be some dark spell."

Strider nodded his agreement, "Only the poisons from that land reacts thus with _athelas_."

"Light and darkness can never be together," Elrohir said, "_athelas_ may be the only way to treat the people."

"My mother and sister have been poisoned," Himorn said, "they may be willing to try."

"There is nothing else we can do here," Elladan said, "let's go."

* * *

Elladan, Elrohir and Estel prepared the kingsfoil the way their father had taught them. Then, the twins each took a patient while Estel and the other elves shuttled between them, helping to fetch supplies and other necessities. They had decided to leave some _athelas_ boiling to keep the room infused with the soothing smell, deciding that it might do some good against the poison.

Estel stood beside Elladan as he treated Himorn's mother. There was little that could be done at this stage. Even as the herb entered her body, she seemed to struggle with pain. All present there could see that she was trying not to cry out, but at last a gagging sound emanated from her throat.

Elladan impulsively reached for her hand, giving her some comfort and strength. Her cries reduced considerably and her breathing grew regular. Elladan looked at the others in surprise. The same happened a while later with Elrohir and Himorn's sister.

The elves and Estel then moved out of the room, leaving the two to rest. Melanel, the head servant, had found space to house all twenty-three of them and they were in the process of writing the warnings to the people. Calenlas stopped in the middle of a word.

"How do we know who's on our side and who's not?" he asked, "we don't know if _they_ are already in Mirkwood, do we?"

It was as though all of them suddenly realised the implications of the question. There was no telling if _they_ would adjust their plans or come up with a more vicious attack should they be discovered.

"No, we do not know," Himorn agreed, "but I say, we warn as many as we can. This is a gamble we will have to take."

No one could argue against that.

They wrote the warning letters till deep into the night, before distributing them throughout the kingdom, slipping it under doors, through windows, hoping that families who received the warnings would in turn warn those who did not. All twenty-five of them were tired when they finally stumbled to their lodgings for rest.

"I will see the King at first light, and ask what must be done," Himorn said before he turned in.

tbc...


	7. Hope

Chapter 7 – Hope

"I yngyl ad-tolel!" Rúmil practically spat.

This was the third lot of spiders that had come upon them since their setting foot in Mirkwood at _minuial_. Haldir had taken Rúmil and fifty other warriors to Mirkwood upon Lady Galadriel's instructions. He had been two days' journey from the Mirkwood borders, and had immediately set off. Rúmil had only come along as he had left Lórien for one of the rare times, to seek his brother. The lady had communicated her plan to Haldir in thought and stressed on its urgency, so he did not want to waste time trying to persuade Rúmil to return.

All of their weapons have already been stained with spider flesh and sticky webbing, but till now, they had made it through the woods with only minor cuts and bruises. They had met a company from the Mirkwood Army and were still seeking to find the others, based on the information that company could offer. Initially, they were reluctant to say much or even join them, but Haldir, in his usual authoritative tone, had told them of what Lady Galadriel had seen. None of them had been keen to risk endangering their King and home, and had complied readily.

Another spider skirmish took place, bringing the score to 76-0, in favour of the elves. Then, they heard some elven cries and sprinted in that direction. Haldir sighed. It was as though every single spider in Mirkwood had been set loose upon the elves. Recalling the Mirkwood Army, it would seem, was not an easy task at all. There were still the most of the hundred or so companies to go; some four thousand, nine hundred and fifty more elves to account for.

Haldir intended to split his group into three groups, give instructions for further regroups and splintering, and attempt to contact every last warrior. Of course, he had set a rendezvous point – Mirkwood Palace, as instructed by the Lady. But all that would have to wait until he could settle this lot of spiders and tend to the victimised group.

Strider was clearly losing his cool at the sight of the many tormented by the pain.

We don't even know what we fighting against. How can we ever do anything? he thought hotly.

Many had been brought to the healing wing, but there was limited room there, so five other large rooms had been converted for that purpose. Himorn's mother and sister had already been relocated, and with patients held in a centralised area, it was easier for the healers to monitor symptoms and care for them.

As long as they could bear with all that cacophony of the shouts and cries.

At times, the patients would shiver badly, and at other times, sweat would pour from their foreheads. Some were beginning to hallucinate. A hand would be thrust into the air or waved around, as though fighting some invisible foe. The elves complained of nausea, and sheer pain, and though they were trying not to show it, many had already been too weak to control themselves.

The entire Imladris envoy was kept busy in the healing wing. The number of patients was unknown; around two thousand had already been infected, and the figures were swelling rapidly. This morning alone, some five hundred more elves had joined the ranks of those present. Everyone could only hope that the warnings would be heeded, and the figures would decrease.

Even with the combined numbers of the Rivendell team and every wood-elf with sufficient medical knowledge, there was still insufficient help going around. The smell of _athelas_ was already saturated in the room, but no one seemed to be recovering. The elves were in varying stages of poisoning, and the effects seemed to vary slightly from elf to elf. Those who were first poisoned had already suffered for three days. Estel did not know how long more would they be able to last.

Some other herb was needed, this Estel knew. _Athelas_ was among the strongest herb, and usually worked well for poisons and injuries. He tried to recall all that Elrond had taught him. _Athelas_ came from a family of medicinal herbs, yes. The smell of _athelas_ was supposed to be soothing; yes, he knew that too. _Melethlas_ was the weakest herb in that family– Now, what relation did that have with the current problem!

Evidently, his frenzied mind could not process thoughts clearly enough.

"Where is _nana_?" The elf-child beside him asked. "I want _nana_. Everything hurts."

The elf was sobbing quietly, his tear-stained face covered with a light layer of dirt.

Estel's heart went out to him, remembering the times when he was in such a position, though in a much less serious state.

Only a mere child, he thought, but he has to go through so much.

Estel raised a hand to stroke the elf, gently brushing his hair from his face.

"Tirion, _nana_ is coming," he said, "you must wait patiently for her."

The child nodded.

"When _nana_ comes, she will kiss me and everything will be alright," he managed to say before the pain exploded within him.

Estel could have wept at the child's innocence and bravery. He smiled and turned away, unable to watch the child combat the poisons within him. Who could be so inhuman to do such a deed?

"You have done well," King Thranduil said, after hearing Himorn's report.

"My Lord, I wish to ask one more thing," Himorn sounded hesitant.

Thranduil cocked his head slightly, indicating for Himorn to go on.

"Please recall the Mirkwood Army."

Thranduil breathed deeply and let out a long sigh, thinking the request through. This was something that he wanted to do as well, and now that it was clear that Legolas was not in the stipulated area, there was barely any reason for the army to be there.

"Sound the horn," he said finally, giving the long-due order.

Himorn bowed and left.

Thranduil felt more alone than ever. It was in times like these that he longed for the companionship of his wife and sons. There were times when he could only think of sailing into the West. He could still remember the first time he had seen the sea. It was a vast blue expanse with hypnotic waves that ebbed and flowed. If there were rocks around, they crashed against them, resulting in a mesmerising aerial dance of white foam.

He remembered the salty taste that caused his tongue to tingle with anticipation and excitement; the fresh sea-air, the beautiful sea-air! It was so different from that in the woods. Sea-air was intoxicating; it made one feel more alive, it made one feel more real. Every breath seemed sweeter than before, every breath meant much more than before.

And there were also the gulls! White beings soaring in the sky, gliding, swooping down to the sea, and rising in an eternal cycle. They bridged the gap between the skies and seas. They were to the seas as clouds were to the skies. They were complementary in colour, sound, movement and everything; companions that could not do without each another.

It was in moments like these that he yearned even more strongly for such peace, such solace. To be free from all cares, just watching the sea swirl around him, knowing he was bound for a much better, much more beautiful place. What could supersede that!

But he knew he would not go; he could not go yet. Because there was Mirkwood. Though decayed, it still carried beauty and elegance. Because of Legolas; the young elf had much to learn, and much to do. Because of everything green still worth holding on to. Because it was worth it.

And so, he would stay. He would do what he could.

Legolas languished in solitude. It was not boredom that tormented him, not claustrophobia, not anything, but himself. He knew of many things he could do – this space was not exactly small or cramped – but his own hopelessness and helplessness closed in on him and they formed the only thoughts in him.

He knew that, but gave in to them; he was too weak to resist now. He had reasoned that someone would come, he had reasoned that he would eventually find a way out, he had reasoned that things were not as bad as it seemed, he had reasoned that he had fallen purely by accident and not from any trap...

But he knew he had to face facts.

Fact: No one was aware that he was unaccounted for. Fact: His appearance here was premeditated. Fact: Very few, if any, knew of this hole, and those who did, were most likely not on his side. Fact: Mirkwood was in dire distress, whether he faced it or not. Fact…

Legolas sighed again.

Fact: There was no way out.

Legolas tried to shut off any unpleasant thoughts, but he was clearly losing control. The last thing he needed was a mental breakdown; he had to think clearly, he had to think! He knew he was dangerously close to the edge now.

There was nothing much he could do now that he came to think of it. His tears were all spent, his throat was growing hoarse and it was no longer interesting to count how many square feet of space he had (thirty-six square feet) or how many stone slabs there were (forty-three on the ground, solid stone on the walls except for a one-square-foot-small crack). At least he had not grown sick of sighing yet.

Legolas suddenly remembered his blade. He had kept one in his boot, just for the time when he would need it. There was a pivot to allow it to fold into its hilt, ensuring that the blade could be easily kept without much danger to himself. Of course, a simple locking mechanism ensured that the extended blade would not fold in upon impact.

For want of something better to do, Legolas flicked it open, sliding it across the walls around him. More excited than ever, since he had a new game to try out, he felt his way along the wall, inch by inch until he came to it:

The gap in the stone where the sapling had grown from.

There, stone had given way to softer compressed soil. A plant had managed to grow into this hole, defying all science and logic. Perhaps he could follow its path outwards.

He started work immediately, wondering why it had taken him so long to think of this. He knew full well that he would not be able to fit more than his head into that area, but he did not care. This was perhaps a pastime that would occupy him for a while.

Scrapping sounds were soft, and no one would be able to hear him, he knew. His earlier _shouts_ had been unheeded, and whoever was leaving the scraps of food most probably would not mind him vandalising his own home.

He thought with wry amusement of what his father would say to such an activity. But then again, any elf who had not lost his sanity would frown upon what he was doing. As for Legolas, the darkness had probably changed him.

Countless hours passed in senseless scraping and his arms were growing numb fast from the repetitive task. He stuck his head into the hole, feeling loose soil against his face. Much as he preferred cleanliness, the sensation of being near something more natural was very welcome.

He wondered if that was how he would feel if his mother were still around. He could barely remember anything of her, and in his nightmares, he had called for her, not knowing why he did it. Whenever he did that, someone would come, giving him soothing pats, running fingers through his hair, whispering soft words of comfort.

But he knew his mother had departed, and that it was because of him that his mother left the shores of Middle-earth. She had been far too weak following childbirth. Perhaps he should not have been born at all, then, his father would have a complete home. There would be a father, a mother, and Laeglas.

Not Legolas, for he was only a source of grief, a source of sorrow, a source of trouble.

It was then that he heard it. The signal for an immediate return to the palace had finally sounded. He knew it would resound throughout Mirkwood and even a little beyond that. It was a risk that his father had finally taken. Through this act, he had openly proclaimed that Mirkwood's army was scattered throughout the area; any nearby party wishing to take advantage of that could do so easily.

But this meant something else: Someone was finally aware that something was wrong.

Legolas' mood changed suddenly, and he could not resist singing in joy; dark though the times were, there was always hope for a change.

_I only want to sing,_

_Even when we in sunlight bask._

_Until the hills our voices ring,_

_Until darkness no more can mask._

_Until You come and find me,_

_Until the end's beginning,_

_Even where light will never be,_

_I only want to sing._

"What is that?" Haldir asked.

"It's the signal for a recall. The entire Mirkwood Army is to head back for the Palace as soon as possible," a wood-elf replied.

"Good!" Haldir exclaimed, "you say that all will return?"

"As long as they are able to, they will."

"Good!" Haldir repeated, a relieved smile brightening up his face. This made his work much easier!


	8. The Time Has Come

Chapter 8- The Time Has Come

"So, they think they can upset my plans?" Carasgon sneered, "we make for the Palace in four hours!"

The mercenaries grunted their approval. These were Easterlings, except for two elves, exiled like himself. It had been strangely hard to persuade them, and in the end, he had used the spell.

They became good after that.

He had about three hundred under his command, but he knew this was no match for the ten-thousand-strong Mirkwood Army.

So, he had gone to great lengths to weaken the Army, to send them out and keep them abroad, and busy the people and home guard all for this one minor problem in his plan. And there was that Prince to deal with. Carasgon would not have had him spoil plans yet again, but since one of the elves had suggested a good way to use him, he would keep him alive just for that while more.

Carasgon knew that even the most well-laid plans could go wrong, which was why he took many steps to ensure that _his_ would not; his was now _far _too good for that. The spell had brought many down and busied many others. Just what he wanted.

The Palace was now virtually unguarded, and should there be guards, they would have been too demoralised to do anything.

Himorn returned to the healing wing to help and Calenlas had joined him after a quick organisation of the archers. Due to the poisoning, Calenlas' father, Cuorn, had to had all of his archery classes rescheduled. This was particularly disastrous as he had been training the reserve army and offering refresher courses for those who needed them.

Now, they were busy fighting two battles; one against unseen poisons and one against whatever or whoever had planned this. Mirkwood had to be strong enough to defend herself, and to do that, her people had to recover from the poison, which required the combined strength of the elves in itself.

It was a vicious cycle.

Elladan, Elrohir and Estel were perhaps most well versed in the healing arts, and they worked tirelessly (or at least tried not to show any lethargy) with Brondil, the Chief Healer, and Himorn to develop a cure. But their overnight toils was to no avail. The sick grew sicker, and the weak grew sick. The healers themselves often felt so weary that they even slept right in the middle of administrations, and only awoke to the smell of fresh _athelas_.

Screams of names of loved ones and family, screams of pain and endless agony. These were now commonplace in the healing wing. The elves seemed as though trapped in nightmares where they were tortured, day and night, the _athelas_ only relieving them for a comparatively brief instant. At times they awoke, fear evident in their eyes, disorientated, bewildered, distraught.

Himorn found Estel standing in a corner, staring into the scenes before him. Everyone felt as he did – the poison seemed so unreal, but was too real – and it showed clearly in their eyes, their actions.

"My friend, you should rest," Himorn gesticulated at the sleeping Calenlas, "you may think better then."

Estel shook his head. He was very aware of his human weaknesses, but so long as he was able to, he would try to find a solution. He would hold on to hope, even if it were blind, and cling on to it desperately. Himorn sighed and left, having reaffirmed the fact that the human had a stubborn nature.

"Gerich veleth nîn, ion nîn… Broniathach sen… Ú-gosto, tithen pen … Estelio estel, estelio veleth," bits of whispered conversation filtered through to his ears.

It was that elf-child he had spoken to earlier on. Tirion. His mother was finally here, and was striving hard to comfort the tearful elf. The words reverberated in Estel's mind.

"Meleth… i veleth en Ilúvatar na far… "

At least elves do not have to worry about dying for they would be given a chance to live again, Estel thought.

He did not know Tirion well, but from the past few days, he could tell that the elf-child was strong and firm, and he had already begun to admire and respect the elf-child. Once again, he hammered against the wall in frustration, ignoring the worried looks. He had to think of something that could work. Tirion's mother's words were haunting him again.

Think, he told himself, concentrate and think!

He shut off all the sounds of the dying, but his mind still did not work.

Then the news came.

"Tirion gwanna."

There was a silence throughout the entire wing, interrupted only by soft sobs and moans, as everyone lamented the passing of the innocent child who had brought gladness to many hearts.

They needed to find that cure fast.

Elrond saw and knew what was happening and he grieved with the others. From his sons' thoughts, he could see the harmful effects of the poison, and a quick consultation confirmed at once what sorcery it was. There was no known means stated to counter it. He sighed. The death of an elf was no small matter, especially when this was only the beginning.

Carasgon confirmed the plans again. As soon as the Palace was secured, a hundred Easterlings would be posted to the exits and stand guard there under the command of Galion the elf. Considering the circumstances, Carasgon did not expect much resistance from those pitiable elves.

The Easterling weapons had been specially made. Their usual long spears was no good for fighting in the confined Palace area, so they had switched to scimitars, which they had been training with from their youth. Even so, the weapons were not the usual scimitars, but had been thickened to allow his little surprise to work.

He smiled as he thought of it.

This was the second spell, a runic spell for weapons, causing the same immense pain to whomever it should come into contact with. The spell found its source of energy in blood, and once summoned, they weapon would increase greatly in effectiveness. Unless the victim had an unnatural strength and will to remain alive, there was no hope of recovery.

As such, the shortened scimitars could be kept light but strong, allowing its bearer to wield it with unrivalled power for long battles. It was also a great comfort, that as long as the weapons made an impact upon skin, the opponent would not survive even if the wound was not grievous. Of course, the Easterlings had been kindly given an antidote should they scratch themselves by accident. He needed no deaths on his side, yet.

If, when, all went well, by nightfall, he would be able to savour the sight of Thranduil's life-blood and spirit departing from him. Of course, that was after the Prince had been slaughtered before his eyes. Since that Prince did do him some good, he would spare him the pain of losing all before his death. Either way, it would be sweet, complete revenge.

This is all because of you, he thought, because of all of you who have made me into what I am. Do not blame me for this.

As expected, Legolas' digging did not do him much good after all. The hole was already as large as he could get it to be, and he could go no further. Even though he desperately wanted something to occupy him, his arms had reached the furthest they could.

He was hearing even much more clearly than before. Perhaps it was that hole, or perhaps it was his further heightened senses. Mirkwood's water supply had been poisoned, Master Cuorn had to cease training, Calenlas had tried to set things in some order, but what he really needed were people, who could teach archery, stepping forward to help.

There were also tales of Imladris and Lórien sending envoys to Mirkwood. The Imladris company was especially busy in the healing wing, and Estel had come too. Estel…

Legolas was still amazed at how timely everything seemed to be. It was as though someone had arranged and orchestrated every single event. And he knew Who it was: Eru. There can be no other. Eru had let the happenings play out as some impeccably interwoven fabric, prompting the characters in the play when they forgot their lines or actions. Legolas sincerely hoped that this tapestry would not fall apart.

Elladan, Elrohir and Strider walked to the archery field. Calenlas was trying to cope with training ten moody elf-children, giving a class on the theoretical trajectories of an arrow while debating the finer points of archery with two other elves at the same time. The three brothers felt instant pity for the elf scampering to and fro.

"Calenlas," Elladan called the sprinting elf, "need some help?"

Calenlas stopped in mid-stride.

Elrohir elaborated on his twin's words, "_Ada_ has been training us to teach archery. Estel and I can help with the younger ones while you and Elladan settle the rest."

Calenlas gave a look that suggested he had just been given the silmarils to keep forever and would not been harmed by the Oath of Fëanor or through any other way.

"Sure," he said, finding his voice at last, "any help is very welcome."

The elves in the Reserve Army were far more difficult to convince. They were appalled at the idea of a human guiding them, and they refused to cooperate well, until Elrohir ordered them otherwise.

"What makes you think you can teach us, _human_?" An irate elf-child finally revolted.

Elrohir could see Strider's patience wearing very thin, and he caught the brief flash of anger across his face. At this stage, he figured it was a better fate to be up against a Balrog than that Ranger. Belegil was too young, too tainted with hatred for other races and too foolish.

Strider sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, clearly trying to remain calm. He considered releasing an arrow into that elf, or at least causing one to brush hard against him, but he would not smear his reputation just for a mere insolent elf-child. At least not yet.

The Imladris elves had been much more receptive than that. In the few sessions he had had a hand in, they listened readily and benefited much. Although his archery skills were not as superb as Glorfindel's or Legolas', he was almost on par with the twins and his naturalness in teaching aided him greatly.

He walked up to that elf-child, holding a gaze so steady and piercing that the elf-child shrank from him, unable to look him in the eye. But the defiance was still there. Strider put a heavy hand on the elf-child's shoulder and took the bow and arrows from a slightly shaky hand. Giving him another hard look, Strider drew the bow fast, thrice, the arrows forming a tight triangle right in the center of the target.

The elf-child gaped, and so did the others.

Strider said sternly in an icy voice, "If you do better than that, then I will not teach you."

He walked away, but Belegil was not satisfied at ending it there.

"Even if I cannot do that, I will _never_ have a mortal teach me!" he shouted.

Elrohir and all the other elves watched on. Now, Elrohir thought he found courage to try fighting _mano a mano_ with Sauron himself.

Strider could no longer control himself, after all, he was not known to be rash for nothing. With speed that even he had not known, he whipped out an arrow, fitted it to his bow and watched it sail through the air, his steely and stoic demeanour never changing. The elf-child had shock written on his face as the arrow approached. Unable to move, he only stood there, his eyes wide, mouth open as the arrow shaft brushed hard against the delicate tip of his pointed ear. Predictably, the arrow found its way to a tree.

"You've found your answer," Strider's cold voice said.

Perhaps even Melkor, Elrohir decided.

The elf-child did not dare talk back now, watching numbly as the man raised another elf-child's arms slightly and walked back to Elrohir.

"Great shot," Elrohir said, his voice rising in a _crescendo_, "if we were competing you would have won by a large margin, but what in Arda were you thinking!"

"Killing him?" Estel suggested playfully and shrugged, "a pity I tend to miss."

"You sure worried all of us," Elrohir's voice softened as he admitted that.

But the shot proved effective, and the session ended without any problems. The last bit of rebelliousness had been shot cleanly away. The young elves left the field, having learned much even from the human, with Belegil still touching the red tip of his ear gingerly.

The hunt had started; his game, his rules.

The time had come.

Finally.

The day was nearly over, and all would be eagerly rushing home. Carasgon felt an indescribable thrill run through his body at the thought. He assembled his contingent and gave the final instructions. Then, they set off in the rush and commotion of the evening.

The elves had grown to be more trusting and complacent, especially within their own land, protected, or so they thought, by the Forest River. It might just be possible to move among them without being spotted. The cloaked figures walked swiftly among the crowd, separated form each other to reduce suspicion. Carasgon wanted to minimise casualties to his forces, so if there were a way to avoid skirmishes, he would take it.

He smiled widened as they moved increasingly nearer to the Palace. Since three hundred figures would have attracted attention no matter how much rowdy the surroundings were, he had sent a significant number to move through the trees, staggering their entry so as not to look conspicuous. Carasgon had trained the men for this from the very beginning of their lives, and they were able to leap from branch to branch almost at the same speed as an elf.

They swam across the Forest River at a less rapid region and reached the Palace wall. The outer wall was high, and there were no trees near enough to attempt to climb in from. But Carasgon was more than prepared. He had been planning this for three whole millennia after all.

The men approached from a more secluded side of the wall, neatly avoiding the sentry. Every member knew his part and carried it out with outmost competence. The Easterlings stepped on each other's shoulders, using the walls as a support. Eight men and the two elves then vaulted over the wall and landed softly on the other side, a rope, held rather tightly by those on the other side, attached to each of them to help minimise the impact.

In fact, it was entirely possible for them to have jumped from the top of the wall. Jumping from high areas and actually landing alive had also formed part of the training regime. Carasgon had guessed rightly that this might be necessary, and he had, as usual, made the necessary preparations. Just as he had prepared the very long ropes.

Those on the outside had secured the long ropes on the nearest trees and were beginning the ascent. Within fifteen minutes, they stepped into the Palace compound. So far, so good. In fact, they were far ahead of time. Carasgon decided to leave the ropes dangling. After all, they did not need excess baggage, and even if the elves found them, it would not matter.

And the bloodbath began.

They charged through the doors, blades slashing wildly at all they came into contact with, stopping only when they or the elves were down. Carasgon grew increasingly impatient. He wanted to get to the King before anything else happened, then whatever Mirkwood could do would never be. After all, Mirkwood had that irrational fondness for their King, and that _had_ to be remedied.

From his regular spy reports, Carasgon knew where the King would be at this particular time, and he knew his way well. He clove his way towards the King's study, his arrival only announced by the short screams of the elves that stood in his way.

Thranduil was poring over some documents, mostly related to food production and crop harvest. He was worn-out and could barely keep his eyes open. Then he heard a scream. It was faint at first, but he knew what it meant. More cries came this way. Pain, anguish, shock, surprise. All shades and nuances of these in elven voices. The noises were still spreading this way. Thranduil reached for his blade, gripped it tightly, and opened the door cautiously.

The door opened a crack, and Carasgon forced it wide. Thranduil stood there, ready to welcome them.

"Suliad, Thranduil," he said. Then, not liking the feel of the long-disused tongue, he continued in the Common tongue, "So we meet again."


	9. Rendezvous

Chapter 9- Rendezvous

Strider slept uneasily. His dreams were not in the least pleasant, and their switching from one event and location to another wearied him. But he could not awake. There was a lit candlestick on the table. Legolas was looking at him, disappointed, clutching a fatal arrow while his blood spread fast on his tunic. His pleading eyes, the unspoken questions, his helplessness, hopelessness, fear.

Legolas mentally blaming him for being late, the eyes that said it was because of him, it was because of him. The soft voice that pleaded for him to release him from his agony, to never give _it_ the pleasure of seeing him fade. Strider's own hand moving, slow and blurry, moving down with a blade in it, moving, governed by its own free will. The elf's eyes closing. The last breath, the last movement. The wind that blew out the flames of the candles. Smoke from the snuffed out candles curling, twirling in the air.

A dimly lit room. Letters and documents scattered like fallen leaves in the wind. Thranduil fighting with an elf, long blades clanging hard against each other. A fight to the death. Cruel and sharp hits, and Thranduil fell, transported to the dining room where Legolas was. The two beings together in death, motionless, with closed eyes.

Then screams, screams and more screams. This he knew to be the healing wing. Tirion was there, and his _nana_ and _ada_. His _nana_ was screaming, distraught and hysterical.

"Estel, Estel!" she cried, "why did you do this to him! He's only a young elf-child yet to see the world!"

He looked in as an outsider, as though from behind a closed window, unable to move, unable to speak. Tirion screamed even louder, twitching incessantly in pain. He did not blame anyone, but everyone knew his unspoken words, "You said to trust Estel and love, but both failed me!"

His _nana_ only cupped his face in her hands, stroked his sweaty hair and whispered again and again, "Estelio estel, estelio veleth…"

Again and again, like a never-ending whirlpool.

"Estelio veleth…"

Strider's sweat was breaking out his own forehead.

"Veleth… Veleth…"

He bolted up in his bed, his body disorientated, but his mind was not.

"_Melethlas_," he said.

Then, as though suddenly realising what he had said, he jumped out of bed, dressed hurriedly and ran straight to the nearby healing wing.

Himorn and Elladan were there, taking the night shift.

"_Melethlas_!" Strider panted, "try _melethlas_!"

Himorn looked at him hesitantly. The herb was extremely mild, not even half as strong as _athelas_.

"But – " the elf began, and got no further.

"Let us try it," Aragorn cut him off resolutely with a stubborn shake of the head.

Himorn looked at Elladan, saw him nod almost imperceptibly, and relented.

The death toll was now twenty-seven, and daybreak would mark the fifth day of the poisoning. By now, they had a fairly good idea of who would be the next to go. Death after death may appear to be mere statistics to many, but Strider and every single elf still felt the misery and dear loss of the immortal lives. Any try would be far better than leaving the elves to die in such a manner.

Elladan quickly prepared the herb while Strider and Himorn paced back and forth impatiently. When it was finally ready, Strider moved towards the awakened patient. Himorn's mother was fading fast; the light already lost from her eyes. Himorn fed her the bitter herb, which she downed easily. Strider doubted he would be so willing to finish it.

Strider offered a silent prayer for the herb to work. The mildest of herbs, _melethlas_ was also the most bitter, which was an irony in itself. Minutes passed. Nothing seemed to be happening, and Elladan left to tend to another patient. Himorn's hopeful face grew despondent.

"Himorn," her cracked voice croaked, "be careful. We are reaching."

Himorn stared at her, wondering what she was seeing behind the closed eyelids. He stood up and walked away, wishing to be alone for a moment. He knew that should anything happen, he should be beside his mother, but he could no longer bear to see her struggle thus.

She coughed.

Aragorn instinctively reached out to help her into an inclined position. It was then that Himorn turned and saw something.

His mother was glowing softly again.

There was life in her!

Strider looked at him, confused for a moment before he understood what had happened. When they faced each other, their eyes were moist. Himorn's tears ran down his cheeks in unbridled joy. He could have jumped and danced, sang and shouted, and done everything to express his happiness.

They had found the remedy!

They had finally found the cure!

There must have been no greater joy than this, at least for the two friends from which the emotions poured out freely. After all the days and night, all the effort, all the hard work, they had finally found it!

It was at this moment that they saw the shadows upon the threshold.

Legolas heard faint shouts. Even when he strained his ears to hear more, they were still barely audible. This meant that the commotion must have come from the other side of the Palace, which meant the sleeping chambers.

And his father's study.

He was gripped by a sharp bout of panic. What was going on? What had happened? Was the Palace under attack? Who did it? Why? A whole barrage of questions swarmed his mind, but two persisted: How did he fit into all this? Why was he locked here?

He could not recall any specific feud he or his father had with anyone. Could Mirkwood have been overrun by orcs? Or spiders? Or did the Necromancer decide to complete the conquest of Mirkwood? His thoughts whirled dizzyingly around him.

Legolas leaned against the stonewall, trying to chase away the colours dotting his vision, and calmed his breathing somewhat. He had gone far too long without food but that was the least of his concerns now. Whatever it was, he needed to be out there, fighting, not locked in a pathetic hole and treated as a beggar right in his own home.

Which is probably why I'm kept here, Legolas reflected.

"Prince Legolas?" A voice and candle-light floated down from the now-open flap.

As soon as Legolas turned upwards, a think coil of rope fell through.

"Hurry, my Lord!" The voice whispered again.

"Who are you?" Legolas was indeed his father's son; distrustful and wary.

A pause.

"One who has forfeited his Elven rights."

Legolas waited for the other to elaborate, but it was not to be.

"Prince Legolas, your father is in danger. You must hurry."

Legolas was still hesitant.

"My Prince, if I meant to do you harm, would I be here talking to you?"

Legolas sighed, knowing he had no other choice anyway. Even if this was only a ruse to draw him to death and destruction, he had no other choice; his father could not wait indefinitely and he could not remain in this hole indefinitely either. He held onto the rope, and before he could climb, was immediately pulled up.

"Galion," he recognised the exiled wood-elf immediately. Galion, the Butler, had been banished by King Thranduil, in a fit of wrath, along with his friend, a Captain of the Prison Guard, for negligence leading to a security breach and a rather embarrassing incident, involving some dwarves, for the Kingdom.

"Lord Carasgon will kill the King, but he seeks you first. Go to the healing wing. You must get help," Galion did not give Legolas much time to think.

"Why are you doing this?" Legolas asked.

"Go!" Galion said nothing else, and prodded Legolas in the direction of the exit.

Legolas gave Galion a grateful look and dashed out of the room. He had to take this risk, to trust that elf and hope that Eru would make a way for him. As he neared the main entrance, he sighted Easterling guards. He paused. He had that blade as a weapon, but against thirty over guards at the same time?

He was thinking of a sound strategy when an elven voice called out in the Easterling tongue. The guards, including some uncountable number from outside the Palace left their posts immediately without question. Legolas ran through the door unopposed, took down a small handful of guards loitering around, and went on and on until he reached the healing wing. He was unnoticed amidst all the commotion in the wing, which was just as well.

He could barely believe he had made it out without any difficulty. It was as though he was merely dreaming. In all the excitement, he had forgotten about his fatigued body. Now it all came back, and he collapsed onto the floor, faintly registering voices calling out to him in surprise and worry.

Legolas awoke sluggishly a while later, moving his arm across his face and catching the attention of all present.

"Estel?" he asked, blinking to see the faces more clearly, "Elladan? Himorn?"

He paused, unable to believe his eyes.

"Haldir?" he finally asked.

"Yes, yes, it is us," Haldir answered for them, "and don't ask how we came here. That is a long story we do not have time for. Just tell us what is going on."

Legolas nodded his thanks to Estel for the offered _miruvor_ and _lembas_. He thought over what to say and how to phrase it in the best possible way, then found that the words just blurted out on their own accord.

"Carasgon has plans to kill my father and I, and perhaps destroy Mirkwood in the process."

Plain and simple.

"Carasgon," Himorn repeated.

"I'm sorry," Legolas nodded, watching as Himorn made a waving gesture to stop him, "how long have I been out?"

"Half an hour," Estel replied.

"We must hurry," Legolas decided.

And the gathering of friends turned into a war council. They moved into a quieter room and managed to rouse Elrohir and Calenlas from sleep.

"Four thousand of the army that was sent has been accounted for, but they are slow in returning," Haldir reported.

Calenlas gave his input next, "At such short notice, the remnant of the Mirkwood Army may not come in time. We can only rely on the trainees and reserves who are within this area."

"How many will we have?" Aragorn asked, every experience gained in the form of Strider and Thorongil coming back to him.

"Two hundred and fifty reserves, seventy trainees, thirty from Lórien, twenty from Imladris. That would be three hundred and seventy," Calenlas answered.

"And if you exclude the females and children?" Legolas suspected they were included in the count as well.

Calenlas' face turned grim, "A hundred and eighty then, but if you include males old enough to pass hunting age, there would be two hundred and fifty, should all of them be well enough to fight."

"But not all are well-trained," Himorn reminded them. "This may not be enough."

"I will not have the females and elf-children sent to war," Legolas would not change his stand.

"Let's assume there are more of them than us, which is very likely the case. If we surround the Palace, they're in the central area, we are spread out. They can deploy troops fast, but we will face delays should anything happen on any front. If we enter from a single entrance, they may find another way out," Elladan analysed the situation briefly.

"I may have an idea," Aragorn said, growing more confident with each word, "we split into two groups. One goes into the Palace and splinters to cover more ground, leaving a certain number in every secured room to guard it and tend to any fallen elves. The other group also further divides into smaller groups to watch the main entrance and the underground stream. There should be no way through the mountain, so that area need not be watched."

The elves nodded. This seemed logical. The Palace was not known for wide corridors, and a large force might even hamper their progress.

"Why the underground stream?" Himorn asked finally, "we should save as many warriors as we can."

"The stream is a possible way of escape. Slim as the chances may be, we would not want to have missed anything," Aragorn explained.

Himorn nodded, accepting the explanation. Rúmil whispered something in Haldir's ear.

"Are you sure there are no other exits?" Haldir asked.

"We could have a group guard the area between the main entrance and the stream," Elladan suggested.

"I will open the gates, so we can enter easily," Legolas said, "the main entrance may be fiercely guarded, but it should be nearer to where my father is."

Legolas then went on to summarise the cries he had heard and the guards at the entrance.

"And that was probably when things had not settled down yet. More men may be sent there, and perhaps to the sentry posts too," he finished.

There was a brief silence during which everyone pondered over what Legolas had said.

"Galion? Easterlings? Just who else are involved in this? This is totally unbelievable!" Elrohir exclaimed suddenly, although he had already accepted it as truth.

Further quick discussions settled ways to decide on who would remain in the rooms, how many to stay in each room (two for smaller ones, up to eight for larger ones with more exits), what to do with resistance (disarm and bind when possible; kill when attacked by the men) and other such details. The general plan was to proceed according to the circumstances.

An hour passed.

Another half-hour for all fit warriors to muster.

Now they were ready.

"This is insane! Two hundred and twenty half-trained people against an unknown force?" Calenlas could not help commenting.

"Isn't this what we're known for?" Elladan teased.

"We have Eru on our side. This will tip the balance in our favour," Legolas said with a strength and confidence that surprised the others.

Yes, that will help.


	10. Unanswered Questions

Chapter 10 – Unanswered Questions

"Familiar?" Carasgon walked behind Thranduil, who was bound tight to the dining chair, "just that no one can save you this time."

Thranduil definitely found it familiar. He still remembered the fear he had felt as the knife flew nearer, how his heart seemed to have been pounding so hard against his chest and then suddenly stopped. And how Legolas' arrow had struck the blade away just an inch away from him.

So, Carasgon wanted to complete what he had started. In Thranduil's opinions, Carasgon's idea of revenge was pure madness. There was barely any motive for it. Or if there was, he certainly did not understand it and did not quite wish to.

"Where is Legolas?" Thranduil asked, trying to keep his voice firm, "what have you done with him?"

"Hmm," Carasgon mused over the question, "shall we just say that he's busy finding out what happens when immortals are slain?"

In the end, he chose to bluff. He had no idea what had happened, only that Galion had found the cellar empty, a coil of rope lying beside the flap, and the door to the room unlocked and ajar. But either way, with or without Legolas, Carasgon knew he could make the King believe and break.

"Do you know your son has rather fair skin? It contrasts rather beautifully with his blood. Pinkish-white and red; what a perfect combination!" Carasgon continued, "you should have seen him begging for mercy, crying and wishing for his _adar_…"

"Legolas would _never_ do that," Thranduil shot back.

He refused to hear any more of what that creature said. He _knew_ Legolas was alive. He _must_ have that conviction. Because only that would keep him alive. He would not, _could_ not, believe what the deranged elf. But what if – Thranduil forced the question out of his head.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Carasgon sat opposite him, clasping and unclasping his hands. He signalled to an Easterling, who brought in a torn, blood-stained piece of clothing.

"Doesn't that look like what he was wearing?" Carasgon added, knowing full well that Thranduil would have no idea if it were true. But to let his imagination take him to where he himself could not…

Thranduil tried to keep his face passive. His mind told him that anyone could take a piece of clothing from Legolas' closet, tear it, pour blood or any concoction to give him such a notion. This was no proof that Legolas was dead. But his heart feared. What if– He stopped himself again. But there was the possibility that Carasgon was telling the truth. Thranduil felt that he was losing hope. What if Legolas was truly… dead? As soon as the question came out, Thranduil seemed to have changed, grown older and haggard in those few seconds.

Carasgon noted the fading glow of the elf with delight. It was working. In spite of Thranduil's suspicious nature, this was getting to him. He kept his silence, letting Thranduil lead himself downwards to despair.

Thranduil suddenly felt empty, as though his life was now meaningless. He used to live for two things – Mirkwood and Legolas. Now that Mirkwood was at the mercy of this crazed elf, and Legolas was… in an unknown condition, what else was there to live for!

Flashback

"_Ada_?" A young sound rang clearly in the darkness of the room.

It was three days since the death of Laeglas. Thranduil had wept in secret, mourning the loss of a young life, snuffed out like wind blowing on a candle. He had also wept for his wife and dear friend, both of whom had left before their time. He missed them all sorely.

Even now, he could still remember the way his _melethril_ threw back her head when she laughed; he could still remember Harthar shaking his head at him, helpless with laughter, as the regal King grew so carefree when playing with his son. His only consolation now lay in the child in his arms. The child who had not ceased crying either.

"_Ada_?" The call came from behind him.

Thranduil turned to face the voice, "Laeg-Laeglas?"

"_Ada_, it is I," a small finger went to brush away his tears. A finger of flesh and blood.

"Do not weep anymore, _ada_. We are in a far more restful place now"

"Laeglas? How can this be?"

"I was sent for a little while," the elf-child said, "you must be strong, _ada_. You must rule Greenwood well."

Thranduil nodded, "This I know."

Laeglas continued, as though empowered by Eru Himself, "Don't live for people or things, _ada_, or you will find life meaningless once they are gone."

"Then, what do you live for?" Thranduil grew curious.

"Eru. Just Eru," Laeglas replied without hesitation, "because Eru will always be around."

Thranduil sighed, "It is easier to live for that which is visible and tangible."

"If so, then the elves will be no different from mortals living only for the present."

Only a child, Thranduil thought, but so wise?

It was as though Laeglas was the father, and he was the son. Laeglas felt real enough. He _was_ real. Then what –

"Is that muindor nîn?" Laeglas asked, looking at the child who had quietened down and was watching him intently.

"Yes," Thranduil answered, "yes, this is Legolas."

"Greenleaf," Laeglas said softly, moving a finger to tickle the child under the chin.

Legolas let out a cheerful squeal, gripping one of Laeglas' fingers tightly. Laeglas laughed, trying to pry his finger out of the vice-like grip without any success. Another tickle did the trick, though, and this time, Laeglas was fast enough to avoid another captive finger. Thranduil watched his sons tease each other in their own way. Legolas was now tugging at a stray lock of Laeglas' hair, and trying not to slacken his grip despite Laeglas' tickles.

Then Laeglas stood up, patting Legolas on the head and ruffling his barely grown hair. Legolas seemed to have understood, and his small face screwed up as though resisting the urge to cry.

"Navaer, _ada_," Laeglas said, "renio i veth i pennen."

He let Thranduil scoop him in a hug, careful not to smother Legolas.

"My spirit will always be near you, _ada_."

And he was gone.

Thranduil wondered if it was only a dream, but he knew in his heart that it was not. Legolas was sniffing quietly again. He remembered stanzas of a song his wife had sung. Another one that she had penned personally for him. He sang softly now, as much for himself as the child,

_I only want to sing;_

_Is this too much to ask?_

_Music my hope will bring,_

_In silence, despair falls as dusk._

_In this world of vanity,_

_My heart wants no other thing._

_Is not sweet music more lovely?_

_I only want to sing._

_Because of You, my friend true,_

_Blessed, my heart is no longer blue._

_Before I leave, anything I'll do,_

_Because of You; I'll sing for You._

_I only want to sing,_

_Even when we in sunlight bask._

_Until the hills our voices ring,_

_Until darkness no more can mask._

_Until You come and find me,_

_Until the end's beginning,_

_Even where light will never be…_

End of Flashback

… _I only want to sing._

Thranduil thought he heard a faint echo, only to find that it was his own voice singing softly. Carasgon was no longer sitting before him. He tried to look around, but he could not see him anywhere, which was just as well. Thranduil remembered Laeglas' words; he could not forget them, no matter how many years slipped by. Live only for Eru…

"Ai, Eru!" he thought.

If he did that, would not everything that he had know, all the glories and fame, honour and power, wealth and family and everything else turn into vanity?

Then, in that instance, Thranduil understood.

Was it not better to receive the peace of Eru than all these temporal joys?

Peace, just that sea away!

But he knew he could not rest until he had fulfilled his duty to his people and Eru, and set everything in order. Like that conversation with Legolas, founded on misunderstandings. If both of them could live to sort things out, it would already be a great blessing to him.

Flashback

They were in a green meadow. Thranduil was running along with Laeglas, both of them enjoying the morning air. Laeglas grew tired, and flopped onto the grass. Thranduil sat beside him, acknowledging that he was no longer as strong as in his younger days. He scooped the elf-child into his arms, cradling him gently, stroking his hair, running his coarse fingers on the soft skin. Laeglas was smiling blissfully, giggling as he felt the tickles.

"_Ada_?" He heard a soft call, but he did not wish to respond.

Thranduil knew he was only dreaming, but he did not want to go. At least this was better than the harsh reality. But Laeglas stood up, giving him a knowing look and that smile.

"Laeglas, don't go!" Thranduil practically shouted as he grabbed the child's hand, trying to keep him for as long as he could. "Don't leave me again!"

"_Ada_?" That call came again, but he ignored it. Laeglas seemed to be dissolving, fading into nothingness before his very eyes. Those eyes still happy, that smile still sincere.

"Laeglas, stay, please," His tone was pleading. "Just a while longer."

"_Ada_, I'm Legolas."

"Don't speak of your brother. You are you, not him, my dear son," Thranduil was desperate to make Laeglas see, to make him stay. "I still remember, you showed so much promise, even though you were only 36 laer old when you passed on. I know you're gone, but please, at least, stay here."

Thranduil went on, "Laeglas, you would have been our best scholar, healer and everything else. You would have been our finest king. You could have even been Mirkwood's finest archer! You can't just go and leave us all. No one can ever take your place, not even Legolas!"

"Laeglas…" Thranduil let himself stay in the memory of the child, mumbling and rambling on. "You've always had your own life, your soul. You are so different from anyone else. Don't let us lose you. All of us do miss you. Even Legolas, who has barely seen you, knows you are missing. Please, Laeglas…"

Laeglas touched his face gently, as though explaining everything to him in that instance. He had to go. Thranduil had to live on his own. He could not hold onto the past forever. And finally, Thranduil understood. He released his hand.

"Go, then, my son," he said, smiling, finally at peace after three thousand millennia.

Then Thranduil awoke. The first thing he saw was Legolas tear-stained face.

"Legolas, what is it?" He asked. The elven-princeling had always refused to show any sign of perceived weakness, of which crying was the first on the list.

What had caused this? he wondered.

Legolas seemed to be still overcome by his emotions. No longer restrained, he burst out in a long tirade,

"So all these years you have never cared for me, but for someone who was long dead, is it not? You have never wanted to consider my thoughts, my opinions, my feelings! You can call me selfish, but all I want is someone who actually cares about me! Whenever I talk to you, you give non-committal answers. When I tell you of the favourite things in my life, you give me that occasional smile or nod and only think of your work!"

So this is it, Thranduil thought. He knew he had not done enough. He had not loved Legolas as he ought. He had always thought that he had done sufficient, and it was enough. Legolas was indeed being self-centred, seeking for attention, but considering how Thranduil had behaved towards him, how aloof he had always been, it was well justified.

Thranduil tried to explain, "There are things that matter more than others. Do you think that your affairs matter more than the kingdom's?"

"I know I am not _that_ important, but I _have_ always done my best to obey you. Can you not spare just an hour of your time? Have you even _tried_ to understand me? Do you even _care_ about me?" The pain and betrayal Legolas felt was clearly evident in his speech.

Thranduil was getting angrier. How could Legolas ever doubt that? It was just that there was always too much to do. He had buried himself in work, trying to forget, trying to move on, and it had grown to be a habit. Why couldn't Legolas see that?

"Of course I care for you, and you shall stop this nonsense," Thranduil felt he had to use a more authoritative voice, "you do as you are told, and not as you wish, Legolas. If it be your will to defy me, then I shall see it stopped."

Legolas seemed to be thinking for a moment, then in a fit of rashness, the words flew from his mouth, "You are my father! We aren't supposed to be like this! We only have each other!"

"That would not have happened if Laeglas and your nana were around. But now –" Thranduil tried to tell Legolas. The elf-child had to learn to accept facts, just as he himself had done, although it had taken so long. But it would seem that Legolas was too far gone to be willing to take any of it in.

"Whenever you see me, you only remember that your wife and son have died and you blame me for it! Have you ever let me be myself, and not what you perceive someone to be? Have you ever given me a chance to prove my worth? Why won't you even let me try?" Legolas' voice carried much bitterness in it.

"Give me a reason why I should," Now Thranduil was getting frustrated as well. Had he done all that Legolas was accusing him of? Was he really that incorrigible? The thoughts flashed through his mind.

"Because I am your son!"

Another silence. Thranduil thought over what Legolas said, trying to make sense of it and give an appropriate answer that would answer his innermost questions. What was Legolas trying to ask of him? What was he hoping to achieve through all that senseless shouting?

"You can try your best, but you will never ever be perfect, my son. No one was, and no one can ever be. You will make mistakes in your life. So did I. But we can only try to do our best. Please understand this, Legolas," Thranduil tried to use a more patient voice despite his near-boiling emotions, but Legolas had already left the room.

And the questions were unanswered.

End of Flashback

Carasgon now felt nothing in him, which was totally strange. He had wanted to see Thranduil suffer, just as he had, just as his entire family had, but that elf was just too cold-hearted for that. He almost shuddered at the thought. How can he not show much reaction when he heard his son's death? Should he not have been agitated or tried to attack him?

Carasgon left the room in his anger. This was out of his plan. Should he kill that unfeeling beast? He knew time was running out. Legolas might have gone for help. Fragments of the recalled army might have regrouped to attack. The spell might have been broken. Anything might have happened within these two hours.

Much as he knew all these were unlikely unless some unknown forces acted in their favour, he knew that he had spent too long trying to take over the Palace, and now, very unbelievably, he was actually hesitating. All these centuries and millennia, he had been waiting for this one chance. He knew that if it were not made full use of, all his efforts would be wasted, his carefully drafted plans probably entering some military school to be cited for case studies.

He wondered what Harthar would say to this. Carasgon was doing it all mainly for him, but he was not here to see it. Harthar would have been too soft-hearted, anyway, so it did not really matter. That was the trouble with his brother. Thranduil and his family had separated their family, had made them lived in sorrow, made them suffer., but still he did not feel Carasgon's hatred

It was all because of that elven-princeling, Carasgon knew, and he was glad that the child was dead. But now, there was another one, and that Queen had cast a spell on Harthar and drew him away. Harthar must have been most unwilling to go, compelled against his own wishes.

Flashback

"The Queen wishes to sail for the West," Harthar said as he was arranging his room, "she finds no rest here."

"Why do you worry yourself over matters of the King's house?" Carasgon did not see the point in that. It was nothing worthy of their concern, anyway.

"Because they are my closest friends, and all these started because of my son," Harthar replied.

Carasgon could not control his rage, "You listen to me, little brother. There are _no_ friends, only _family_. And you'd better get this into your head: _I_ am older than _you_, and _I _know _much_ more than _you_. And I say, they can appear to treat you well, but inwardly they _hate_ you and can't wait to see you dead! Besides, your son did _not_ do anything wrong. If he were truly responsible for the Prince's death then he should be _commended_ and not _blamed_ for ridding the world a menace!"

Carasgon did not know what to do with Harthar. The elf was too young, too childish, too naïve. He could _never_ understand anything.

"It is fine by me! Have it your foolish way!" Carasgon shouted as Harthar ignored him, packing supplies for the healing wing. "Go live in your imaginary fantasy world!"

Carasgon stormed out of the room.

"Why do you hate them so?" Harthar asked quietly, knowing his brother could hear him.

"Anyone with a heart of flesh would! I'm not as sick as you, so used to people dying all around you. You can feel pity for the animals, the trees, the sick, but _never_ for your own family! And family is _supposed_ to be most important! Have you forgotten what _they_ did? They treat us like their _game_, like _pawns_ on their chessboard! Is that not evil enough?"

Carasgon carried on more bitterly, "Do you remember how father died? Because that King used him as spider feed! Father was to kill the spiders with that pathetic group of elves so that the King had more dead spiders than dead elves, and he can go around boasting and bragging what _he_ had done! Now look what happened. Can't you see it's all because of that King?"

He paused to let Harthar try to think, but that fool would not understand, anyway. He went on, "And mother. What happened? She was grieving for father, and that Queen invited her to a feast! A _feast_! Of course the Queen was happy that father was finally dead. Do you remember that she always sent him on errand after errand, hoping he would die, but he came back each time? And whatever the Queen did to mother, she _will_ do to you too! She _forced_ mother to leave us. And she _will_ force you to go with her! Do you not understand? They _hate_ us!"

"Do not say such things without proof, my brother," Harthar started to say.

"Without proof? I gave you so many examples and they are not proof? You have been blinded by their bewitchment! Have it your own way, you fool!"

End of Flashback

He had been right. Harthar had sailed away with that wretched witch. When he saw the tears in the King's eyes he had thought that the King had a conscience after all. But when the King saw him, and gave him that wide, gruesome grin, Carasgon knew without a shadow of doubt that he had been right all along. Harthar was a real fool, allowing himself to be manipulated so easily, but Carasgon was not. No witchcraft would ever bother him.

Carasgon now knew what to do. He walked back into the dining room. The King was having that peaceful smile on his face, as though nothing else mattered in the world. Carasgon loathed him even more.

This'll teach you to be less arrogant! Carasgon thought angrily as he raised his blade high –

– Thranduil did not even flinch, but merely turned to look at him. "I am not so easily manipulated, you sorcerer!" Carasgon shouted –

– and plunged the knife down, not caring where it landed, just feeling it dig into flesh. He savoured the feel of the concentrated red fluid gushing out, like a fountain, like a river bursting its dams. He wet his lips, almost tasting that metallic drink.

Thranduil frowned deeply, his body tensing with the immense pain. Carasgon thought he would enjoy it more. This was definitely not what he had been expecting. He had wanted more melodrama. Perhaps a plea for mercy, some screams, unsuppressed cries to give him the complete victory, to let him exult in the power he now wielded. Thranduil _must_ suffer enough, no, _more_ than enough, for all that he had done.

Carasgon wrenched the blade out, watching more blood spurt out, fascinated by the globules forming a delectable stream, erupting, flying, small droplets and larger patches intermingled, dotting the tablecloth like some children splashing water around.

Thranduil gritted his teeth, refusing to make any sound. He would not let that insane elf pride himself on eliciting a show of weakness from him. The thrust went somewhere on his thigh, near his torso. It had hurt painfully, burning with a sharp pain, but Thranduil knew it was not fatal _yet_. Even so, he would have to get help soon. His body was losing blood too quickly.

Femoral vessel, he thought, not bad, but not good.

He saw the elf's mystified look at the blood, as though he was spellbound. It was as though that demented elf lived only for a sole purpose: Blood. There was now no doubt that this elf was seriously deranged. The blade was raised again. Thranduil felt as tough he was some dinner dish or specimen for dissection. 'Game' seemed to be a good word to describe himself.

The knife was rotated to be perpendicular to his body. It was translating slowly, menacingly towards his neck, his jugular. He felt the cold metal on his skin, the cold compressing of tender flesh, the sharp edge exerting increasing pressure on his neck.

Carasgon was acting as though deciding which way to cut a birthday cake, wearing a crazy grin on his face. If Thranduil had been in a better humour, he might have thought of a better comparison, but now, he only felt the knife, and that searing pain still radiating from his thigh.

The knife was crawling, sliding across his delicate skin, leaving a thin trail of red and a stinging sensation on its route. Thranduil resisted the urge to cry out. He could feel that trickle of blood that paved that way for more, the blood that left his body, the life that was leaving him.

At least he could see his family again, soon. Or perhaps he would live just long enough to find out what that lunatic elf's intentions were.

Other than he was plain maniacal, of course, he thought wryly.

But most of all, he hoped to see Legolas again, to tell him he always loved him, to put every words the way he truly meant them to be, just to be…

The dagger finally stopped, but Thranduil was already lost in his world of black rest.


	11. Showdown

Chapter 11 – Showdown

"Himorn, are you sure about this?" Calenlas asked, "no one will blame you if you stay."

"I know," Himorn said resolutely, "but I will come. King Thranduil is my King as much as yours."

"And Carasgon is your uncle," Calenlas reminded him.

"I will not shield a murderer," the soft reply came.

Aragorn was finishing up with the briefing. Everyone had been surprised at his natural ease in explaining the plan clearly and succinctly, yet not overdoing anything. And the way he spoke was as though he was doing so with great authority and had been doing so all his life.

Aragorn said the last word concerning the plans, and paused, noting that the attention was still on him. It was as though he was expected to say something more. Feeling a little nervous, he offered a short prayer and began, somewhat hesitantly at first but growing in confidence and strength and power,

"Many of you have not fought in a long time; many of you have not fought at all. I know the fear, the apprehension in you and I feel it as well. There is a time to despair; there is a time to weep. But now, it is time to defend ourselves; the time to fight. I charge you, my dear brothers, be not afraid of strength and numbers. Arise, because of your King; stand firm because of your kinsmen, fight, because of your love. For Mirkwood!"

Aragorn meant every word he said, and hoped he had conveyed it well to the elves. He left, abruptly, feeling awkward at his speech. But he stopped just in the doorway. Was his hearing playing tricks on him? The hastily assembled army was practically cheering.

"Mirkwood!" the elves took up the shout, "for Mirkwood!"

Aragorn smiled, satisfied.

"Well done for a first time," Legolas materialised before him, giving him a reassuring pat, "not nearly as long-winded as Mithrandir, and not as hypnotic."

"Hypnotic?" Strider laughed, "so, you learned this skill from him?"

"Are you finally admitting that you fell asleep?" Legolas laughed at what the human implied.

Strider gave an evasive look, only causing Legolas to laugh harder.

Trying to change the subject, he asked, "Why did you think of Mithrandir?"

Legolas sobered up almost instantly.

"He would always give aid in times of need," Legolas reflected briefly on countless occasions where this had happened.

Looking pointedly at Aragorn, he added, "Perhaps his mantle now falls upon you."

Strider looked as though he was about to say something, but was interrupted by Haldir.

"They're ready to leave," he said.

And so, they left, shrouded in gloom.

The moon bore a reddish tint.

Blood moon, Strider thought.

The sky was not completely dark yet. Hues of navy blue, lavender and vermilion fused into a canvas above them. More than two hours had passed since Legolas left the Palace. Anything could have happened within that time. They could only hope that the elf, insane as he was, still had elven patience and thorough thinking. It was the only thing that could buy them more time.

The elves were armed both with the long-ranged bows and arrows, as well as blades of their choice. Most had opted for twin daggers, except the Noldor who preferred a slightly curved knife and some from Lórien who had grown accustomed to swords. Aragorn held his trusty Narsil, being more drawn to it than any other weapon. Despite its broken blade, his swordplay was efficient enough to wield it well and with deadly force. With a bow slung on his shoulder and a quiver of arrows strapped securely, he was ready.

Every single person's thoughts were on the battle ahead as they marched quickly and stealthily towards the Palace. The younger elves moved more hesitantly, trepidation creeping in with each step they trod. No one knew what they were up against. But when they saw Prince Legolas leading them surely and the broad frame of Lord Aragorn moving steadily ahead, the fears eased.

Even Belegil felt the same towards the human now. Since that rather embarrassing archery lesson, he had a grudging respect for the man, but hearing his plans and observing the steady way he commanded the army, Belegil was certain that this was no mere mortal, and certainly not like _them_. Although he had been sorely put down before his class, he was meek and wise enough to accept Lord Aragorn pointing out his shortcomings. The other elves were deferential towards the man; why should he not show the same respect? And thus with newfound reverence, he now marched behind Lord Aragorn.

The Forest River was straight ahead and Legolas was glad to see that the portcullis remained lowered. With no cover from any trees there, he could only hope that all of them crossed the river before being spotted. He did not want to test the eyesight and accuracy of any who stood guard.

Legolas silently counted the elves as they crossed.

_One hundred and five._

More soft padding of boots.

_One hundred and ten._

Legolas hoped they would hurry.

_One hundred and fifteen._

Legolas remembered the sentries. They were usually the best archers and he had had the privilege of being ranked among them. He knew that unless they forded the river much further upstream, and stayed extremely close to the hills, they would be noticed instantly. Carasgon had told him that many millennia ago. Carasgon. He froze at that thought. So that was how he passed the sentry.

_One hundred and eighty-five_.

Carasgon had long been frustrated with palace security, and told him of its many faults. He had said that it was possible to take out the sentries, who in their elevated position were also more vulnerable to arrows, and climb over the walls beside the gate. All that was needed was a medium-sized army, he had said. He even boasted he could demonstrate it with a mere three hundred elves.

_One hundred and ninety-five._

That must have been how Carasgon entered the Palace. Other than increased sentry posts, the King had not done much in view of the suggestion; he had not been able to. With spiders posing a major problem, all excess energy and time went into protecting the entire Elven territory, not merely the Palace.

_Two hundred and five._

The first arrows rained down.

There was a cry and Legolas immediately shouted for those who had crossed to return fire.

"Leithio i philinn!" he called, while beckoning those crossing to quicken their movements.

They did not want to harm any innocent parties, although there should not be any, but if they were fired upon, they would defend themselves.

_Two hundred and fifteen._

Another enemy guard fell.

Evidently, they were not accustomed to shooting downwards, and thankfully, had not done much harm.

The last elf crossed the river.

The last sentry was brought down.

They would not kill unless circumstances required it, and it would seem that the need had presented itself.

Legolas quickly commanded the gates to open, and the troops poured in, exchanging blows with those standing guard at the main entrance. Legolas wondered at how unaccustomed to the battle noises he was. As time wore on, his ear ached increasingly. The time spent in silence had grown on him, and now, he was not in the least pleased.

He noted that the Easterlings were extremely well-trained. Their swordplay was fast and efficient, and many elves had already taken cuts. Although not as wise and experienced as the elves, they had done an incredible job, but thankfully not leaving any fatalities yet. Legolas could only hope that the weapons had not been laced with poison, or the situation would change dramatically.

Then, the archers came. They appeared to be firing blindly into the fray, at times hitting fellow men, but most of the arrows that touched flesh found their way to the elves. The Easterlings were almost elven in their speed, agility and accuracy. Perhaps the only things they lacked (other than wisdom and experience) were the pointed ears and elven grace.

Legolas moved to leave the main assault, noticing that Aragorn was doing the same as he on the opposite side.

In perfect synchronisation, the duo took out the archers; they were doing far too much damage. Their flawless coordination was as though they had been given the signals for releasing the arrows, such that the projectiles flew nearly at the same time, the same speed, slightly towards each other, and finding their targets before the arrows met.

Shoot to kill, Legolas reminded himself, knowing that Aragorn was thinking along the same lines.

Most of the archers had gone down, or were attempting to return fire. Legolas kept track of the arrows he had used. There were perhaps twenty more left in his quiver. Considering the fact that Aragorn almost paralleled every single archer he hit, the man would soon be running low on projectiles as well.

Aragorn wondered what the battle would look like from an aerial view. The centre would have been a mess, bodies twisting and moving in some unfathomable pattern. And there would have been the both of them in hopefully pure symmetry at the flanks, releasing arrows at about the same rate. At least Aragorn estimated that he was releasing three arrows for every four Legolas did, and most of them were actually true to their targets.

Once again, he was grateful for having to teach the elf-children.

It was then that Aragorn caught a movement from the corner of his eye.

An Easterling was wandering up behind the Prince, blade raised.

And Legolas was too busy trying to take down more archers.

"Legolas!" he shouted, knowing the urgency of the situation.

Solely by instinct, he moved.

Legolas turned around.

Fast though his reflexes may be, he was unable to do anything much now. He raised his bow in defence, cringing at the snapping sound as the blade cut the wood into two. A perfect waste of a good bow!

But he had no time to think, no time to even draw his daggers.

The bow-string fell out, and each limb of the bow quickly became makeshift weapons as he readied himself for the Easterling.

The Easterling was swinging his blade close now. The wood would barely stop the blow, but it did not matter.

The Easterling stopped, hand frozen in mid-air, before falling downwards, revealing a dunadan's arrow embedded in his back.

Legolas managed to move away before that Easterling fell on him.

How had Aragorn gotten so good? Legolas wondered as he nodded his thanks in the general direction of where the man might be.

The arrow had found the Easterling amidst all the beings, who were in constant movement. He would have to speak with the human of this! But now, he hurriedly picked up a discarded Easterling bow, refilled his near-empty quiver with some fallen arrows, and tried to work with them.

With the archers reduced in numbers, the elves began to have a certain advantage. Haldir and Rúmil had joined the duo in what grew into an archery contest (which Legolas won), and many elves, strengthened by their leaders' zeal, fought with renewed vigour.

On the other hand, the Easterlings grew disheartened. They had relied much on the archers, and with those gone, they did not carry much hope. Especially those who watched Elladan and Elrohir, fighting as one, parrying, cutting, thrusting effectively. They protected each other's backs, cleaving those who came too near.

Himorn finally cleared a way into the Palace, and he charged in. Legolas followed, as soon as he had retrieved a good bow and refilled his quiver, and so did the other elves, after ensuring that there would be none to give a report.

A few elves had to be left behind, being too weakened from battle injuries, and these were put under the care of the groups guarding the exits. About five elves had been lost in this first onslaught, and their weapons were taken by those who lost theirs. Aragorn brought the rear after ensuring that the elven guards were put into place at the three pre-determined locations.

Room after room was refreshed with the elven presence. No one knew the exact number of rooms around, and could only hope that this was a feasible plan. Certain passages were well guarded, but others had minimal resistance. All were glad that there were few elven bodies in those rooms they had been. Most of the Palace staff were grievously injured, though not to death, and had grown delirious. Little could be done except for the elves to leave a fresh supply of _athelas_ boiling to help them somewhat.

They searched the Palace methodically, systematically, leaving none to sound the warning. An unknown span of time passed, but they had found no sign of the King or Carasgon yet.

The Palace was deathly silent whenever the clash of weapons ceased. It was almost impossible for any elf not to know that there was fighting within the compound, but Carasgon, with his long exposure to humans, might have lost some of his elven senses, the same way Legolas' hearing and sight had been heightened following his being confined to the silent darkness.

Legolas was feeling the impatience threaten to take over him. Another elf had been lost in a skirmish. They needed to find his father fast. They could not let elf after elf die in vain. With each death, their morale fell, and they grew more impetuous. Although all of them had seen death at one point or another, none relished the sight of the last throes or the sound of the elven farewell.

The Palace was large, he knew, and although they had broken it up into a few sections to search, progress was still slow. And Legolas suspected that the thick tapestry, walls and doors would absorb sounds, rendering any soft cries for help inaudible.

Aragorn and Himorn were just behind him, feeling very much the same as he. He could hear them beginning to tire, he could feel their exasperation. Legolas fervently hoped that when they got to the right room, there would be enough people in a battle-ready state. Their group grew smaller as they passed more rooms, elves breaking off from the main group to secure more territory.

Those would have to remain in the rooms for at least half an hour, to ensure it was not re-occupied, before rushing to rejoin the group. Legolas counted about twenty people behind him. If they carried on at this rate, well, it was not what anyone could consider good.

All of a sudden, he stopped, causing the column to lurch unsteadily for a brief moment. He thought he had heard something: a soft song through the air. He turned to face those behind him, seeing their supportive gazes and silent commitments.

Legolas led them, running through the corridors. But the song had ended before he could identify it or even the singer. Even so, he was willing to risk it. Without anything to guide him now, Legolas tried to remember the direction of the voice.

Then Aragorn spoke unexpectedly, "The dinning room."

Legolas moved without question, trusting the man completely. Wherever he had gotten the idea from, he had considered it fit to be brought up and checked out. Even if the section was not under their jurisdiction – as Aragorn enjoyed putting it – they would have to take a look. Besides, it was near enough such that it would not be that much of a waste of time should they return and continue on their planned search field.

The group moved hurriedly through the corridors. More Easterlings were here, but the singing bows quickly put an end to them. It was here that another elf collapsed, pain showing on his features as he tried to keep himself from squirming. Aragorn moved over immediately.

The elf had a few minor wounds but was in an otherwise perfect state. Aragorn looked at the wounds more closely. The blood flowing out was not the usual red, but darkened with… poison. A spell. There was nothing that could be done now except to leave him in a guarded room with more _athelas_ boiling and infusing the room.

The column now reached the dining room. There were two entrances there, both of which were closed. Legolas instructed them to form two groups. The first would wait while the second reached the other door, and hopefully enter at the same time.

Now, everyone was far more certain that the treasure hunt ended here.

There were scuffling noises, chokes and a brief shout.

The other group seemed to take long eons to move.

Elladan and Elrohir made for the last room, a mere five elves behind them. There had been no finds thus far, and although the corridors were increasingly well guarded, they posed no great threat to the elves. Other than an elf who had behaved the same way as the scratched one in Legolas' group did, all of them were in a fit state.

Elladan hoped that someone had identified the right room. Every single area that their group had been to was unoccupied, and except for this last corridor, there had been no trouble. Even here, none of them sustained a single scratch, at least not yet. Although archers had been present outside the caves, those in here only wielded scimitars, and arrows were more than enough to dispatch them without coming close.

The twins were surprised as they turned into this room. It was empty and unlit but there was an opened lock on the door. Why would anyone lock up an empty room? Elladan estimated that they were now along the perimeter of the Palace facing the river. They stepped in cautiously, as they had done for all the other rooms.

Elrohir saw that this led to another room, and promptly went over.

But as he moved, the floor beneath him fell away.

"Elrohir!" Elladan shouted, not seeing where his brother was.

"I'm here," a voice somewhere below him called up, "there's a room here."

Soft footsteps from underground. Some prodding sounds.

"No, this hole doesn't lead anywhere."

A thought suddenly dawned upon the twins.

"Legolas must have been here! That's why no one found him!" Elrohir exclaimed before his brother could.

Elladan had found the flap by then, noting how well-concealed it was. The hinges were only small lumps in the floor. Elladan studied it closely before deciding that there was only one way to open the flap: from the top. Another elf retrieved a coil of rope discarded on the floor and kept the flap opened while Elladan hauled his twin up.

"That wasn't a nice place to be in," Elrohir said, as they looked for something to mark the trap.

In the end, they settled for coiling the rope around the flap. That done, two elves stood guard there while Elladan, Elrohir and the last elf went on to the adjacent room, beginning their half-hour watch.


	12. Spirit of the Sword

Chapter 12 – Spirit of the Sword

Galion heard the muffled sounds of battle and knew that Legolas had finally brought help. He had never wanted to join Carasgon, _Lord_ Carasgon, he hastily corrected himself, but he had no choice in that matter. That was the only way to stop his agony and guarantee his family's safety. He had seen how that elf dealt with opposition.

One other elf, his childhood friend, a captain, had hesitated in fighting his own kind. Lord Carasgon had seen it and threw a blade at him, leaving him to bleed to death. Galion had watched him leave.

There had been no last words, only a quiet determination that still burned strongly in his eyes.

The captain seemed to be urging him to further his cause, even as pain and weakness tore at him.

Then the fire had gone out.

Some Easterlings had been sent to locate his family and exterminate them. They returned quickly, weapons stained with rich red elven blood. Galion could only imagine the fate of the unfortunate elves. He had then grown afraid, slashing wildly at everyone within the Palace.

The captain had confided in him about rebelling against Carasgon, _Lord_ Carasgon, but he had not been willing to cooperate. He had been cowardly, he had feared too much. And he had failed. Now, with the death of his closest friend, he had known what he had to do. He had rushed to where Prince Legolas was kept, and pulled him up. He had been unable to look at the royal being; his own guilt and conscience constrained him.

Now, he looked at Lord Carasgon. No, he would no longer submit to that demented elf. Carasgon was leaning over a small table, as though deep in thought. Galion moved quickly. There were twelve Easterlings in this room. _Only_ twelve. Perhaps he could… He knew he did not dare raise his hand against Carasgon yet, but these twelve could go. A plan formed quickly in his head.

Carasgon seemed to have lost many of his elven gifts. His mannerisms were no longer graceful, his hearing was no longer delicate, and he even spoke the black tongue without flinching. Even so, Galion knew that Carasgon was still dangerous, perhaps even more so, now that he had lost his conscience. He felt his heart begin to pound more wildly as adrenaline flowed fast throughout him.

Would this be expedient?

Did he stand a chance?

What if…

Thranduil was singing softly, and that seemed to give him renewed courage and hope.

What if he didn't try?

What if he succeeded?

It certainly seemed much more pleasant to die trying than to watch others depart and not do anything.

Taking a deep breath, he acted.

The guards would listen to him, this he knew. They feared him almost as greatly as they feared Carasgon, for the latter showed much favour and delight in him. He motioned for the guards to gather. They obeyed instantly, cowering somewhat at the angry eyes of the elf.

"There is a traitor among us," Galion said in the Easterling tongue, "five of you have betrayed Lord Carasgon."

They looked at each other uncertainly.

"Do you not own up?" he asked.

The Easterlings were now in a totally uneasy silence, especially after beholding the elf's fiery countenance.

"Is there not any of you who knows who the traitors are?" he raised his voice a little.

Then, without warning, he raised he sword and thrust it into the one nearest him.

To the dying man, he spoke as coldly as he could, "You shielded the traitors and shall die for their deeds."

The other Easterlings only grew more fearful as they watched the man give his last spasm.

"Who else is hiding information?" Galion almost roared, knowing that Carasgon would be too deep in reverie to bother.

"I-I know one of them," someone spoke up and plunged his scimitar into the one before him.

Soon, the Easterlings were beginning to finish each other off. Galion could have laughed at their foolishness. He brought his sword down onto the last few that were still standing. It would seem that this was not that bad a strategy after all.

He turned to see Carasgon beside the King. The King had struggled long and hard with Carasgon, and Galion had not wanted to involve himself. With the help of some Easterlings, the King had been swiftly bound, but Carasgon was not at all pleased with the cuts the King had given him, one of which was still bleeding even after so long.

Now Carasgon stabbed the King implacably in revenge. Galion could see how much that hurt, based on the expression in the King's eyes alone, and the King's resolve, his refusal to cry out.

A worthy King, Galion thought, one who has proven himself over and over.

He ran to the door, the King's eyes still frozen in his memory.

In his haste, he fumbled over the knob.

He had to find help fast. If only he could locate those who Legolas had brought…

Oh, why wouldn't that accused door open!

Then, it finally did.

Galion stood in shock as Prince Legolas moved a step towards him, nocking, drawing, aiming, releasing an arrow before he could even blink. He froze, knowing that even if he had not, he would have been unable to react in time anyway.

He managed to close his eyes.

The arrow flew past him. His body was still frozen. Some ten beings charged past him. The second door flew open, and another ten elves poured into the room.

Legolas saw his father bound in the chair, eyes closed, and felt a hitherto unknown rage boil within him. All that searching only to find this! He released the arrow without thinking, ignoring the elf that stood in his way. He pushed unknown objects and beings away, running to his father's side.

"_Ada_!" he called, "_ada_!"

No response. He knew he had shot that mad elf fatally, and ignored his father's attacker for the time being. He vaguely heard shouts of "My Lord!" and "King Thranduil!" from behind him, but he could only think of one thing: he was too late.

He untied his father, his heart breaking at how tightly his father had been bound. It was as though every strand of rope burned his own flesh, cut his own heart.

He bent over the limp body, still calling to his father. How he wished his father could just awake! He had never missed his lectures and scolding until now. If there was anything he could do, he would. Anything!

He held onto his father tightly, trying to give him some strength. He could imagine the misery, the hurt he had felt. Perhaps he had wished for Legolas to come. Perhaps he should have come earlier. He should have thought of this place; he should have known!

Warm tears dripped from his eyes, and he brushed them away, hard.

"_Ada_…" the voice died away, his soul, the bitterness, the regret flowing with the words.

Aragorn wore a haunted look on his face; this was all too similar, too real! But he came over quickly, determined to stop Legolas before the elf went any further. The healer in him quickly sized up the injuries suffered. The King's light had faded almost completely, and his pulse was very weak.

He tore a strip of fabric, bound the King's thigh securely, then went on to work on the neck wound, making Legolas hand him herbs and material in a bid to distract him. He needed Legolas to be strong for his father and people. Despair and self-pity would bring him nowhere.

Carasgon had stopped just before he had severed an artery. King Thranduil was only that little away from definite death. Legolas saw that his father had lost much blood and needed immediate attention. He nodded to Aragorn. The others elves of their group would ensure that Carasgon was kept down and that the other groups would be notified.

Legolas quickly picked his father up, carrying him carefully across his back. Aragorn ran ahead, and Himorn joined them as the rear guard. The other elves were still fighting the miraculously alive Carasgon when they left.

Carasgon was completely incensed. How had such a thing happened? How _could_ such a thing happen? He saw elves coming at him, a man and two elves hovering around his prey.

"No!" he screamed.

He attacked wildly; his only thought was that the elf, his game, was being carried out, carried away. Another regiment joined the elves fighting him. There were so many of them. Where were his Easterlings? They should have done something!

And so, it began.

Sudden noises. Loud. Persistent. The sharp clang of metal. The metal impacting on flesh. There was a lot of confusion. He thought he heard a small, clear voice in the gloom. Straining his ears, he tried to listen out for it. But there was nothing. Only noise, noise, noise. He felt totally numbed. His arm was swinging on its own accord, and his legs were in constant motion. Before him the carnage continued. He knew that once he stopped to think he would not live to see the dawn. How had things gotten to such a stage!

Soon, he could no longer remember why he was here; other than he was leaning very close to victory. He even wondered what his own name was. A sword slit through his abdomen, but he felt nothing. Everything was going by him slowly. He could feel the air move whenever a sword sliced through it, cutting through it as though it was cloth. He could feel the ground pulsate from deep down with every single movement.

Then the pain came. Excruciatingly tormenting him. He felt himself slowing down. He knew he had to. But he also knew that he had to run, away from all that to his primary objective. It was no use. He felt that he could barely move. And he did not seem to want to. The pain was screaming and screaming at him, and he just felt so, so, so tired. He did not want to do anything anymore. He just wanted to rest. Was he hanging on to blind hope that help could come? Then he would not.

It was as though a great weight was lifted off him. He felt almost comfortable. The pain and aches meant nothing now. He was slipping, drifting, floating. On and on, he went, aimlessly walking, dreams now mixing into reality. He saw a large soft cushion, and flung himself onto it without thinking. He felt its softness, its comfort. It surrounded, not suffocated him, wrapping around him warmly. He pounded on it instinctively.

He thought he saw spring. There was green grass all over the hills. White and pink flowers covered the trees on this side, and bright orange ones dotted the bushes. The sun was shining brightly, bathing the land with a rich golden glow. He ran through the fields, exhilarated.

There were so many blue, yellow, green, purple, brown hues and shades. He would be content to stay here forever and ever. Here, the air was cool and fresh and he could breathe freely, deeply and live as though he did not have a single care in the entire world. Every single colour was so rich, so meaningful that everything he ever had seen paled in comparison.

But that in itself was not appealing enough.

In the distance there were feasts and dances within a stone palace. Figures moved with exceptional grace and surprising agility, leaping, soaring and landing lightly on the soft grass, coming towards him. He felt his strength return completely. He took a deep breath and ran forward again, towards the figures. He wanted to join them, to sing loudly, to dance freely, to play once more. No matter how hard it would be to reach that distance, he felt he could run.

A branch came into his way. He knocked it away, hard, with his arm. His momentum brought him dangerously close to a tree trunk, but he managed to swerve at the last moment, and knocked it over for good measure. It was almost fun. He had never known that he was that strong. He would reach them, what ever it took.

They came again, but he would not be stopped. He heard cries, heard loud clashing sounds. It will soon be over, just a little more, only a little! His lungs felt as though they were bursting, but he did not care, did not want to. He only thought of the beautiful palace, dances, and music, and the feast, all the food and rest that he could get after he had finished everything! His legs were aching once more, his arms were stinging badly. He was reaching, he was reaching! Just before he could move another step, he felt himself double over, the ground rising to meet him.

No! his mind screamed, not when it's so close!

He willed himself to rise and take those few steps, but he could not. The centre of gaiety moved away and away from him, and he reached out an arm, as though reaching for it, as though pulling it back. "No, no, no!" He sighed heavily, his body causing the dust on the ground to fly up, swirling, mesmerising. He gave up; he gave in.

Until…

He saw them again. Straight ahead. He flung himself forwards that last one that was blocking his way to his treasure. His swordplay was good, but so was that blur's. Then he grew careless. No, he was not careless. He just had to admit that he was getting older, and everyone else was taking advantage of that. Just as they always did to him and his family.

The dagger lodged in his heart, but he felt nothing. Every injury had already ceased to bear any meaning. Pain was a foreign sentiment and would be evermore. He carried on, chasing that stubborn elf, parrying faster, hitting harder. Why wouldn't that elf give way! And a thought suddenly occurred to him.

He should flee. Flee, not in cowardice, but as a wise move. He would then come back again and finish this game. Yes, that would be more prudent.

He knew where he was now. _It_ was near. Somewhere here.

"I've not lost yet!" He shouted as he ran towards the secret exit.

There were more elves here. But he did not stop to fight them. He only ran, on and on, determined to reach the exit. The elves were only treated to half-hearted swordplay as he moved with only one objective in mind.

At least that persistent one wasn't following.

Elladan and Elrohir heard the battle approach. Then, they saw the elf, still fighting in spite of the blood that coated his body and marked his passage. He seemed to be trying to go somewhere… towards them. They clashed swords, but that elf only tried to ward off their advances and move on. From what Elladan could see, he was heading towards a wall. Why would he do that?

Unless…

Elladan quickly rejoined Haldir and Elrohir, trying to keep him away from the wall. Many times they cut flesh, but the elf still fought on, as though he was immune to weapons. There was a dagger in his heart, a broken arrow protruding from his back. How could he have survived all that? Bewildered, but with no time to think, they tried repeatedly to engage him. At the very least, they could wear him out.

Belegil and the other trainees were growing restless, and almost longed to be part of the action. The soft metallic clangs seemed to have stirred up something within them. Although most of them remained somewhat fearful, all could say that they would not hesitate to fight now.

Belegil remembered a time many centuries ago, when he had been held captive by men. They had then grown weary of him, and brought him to the orcs. Those creatures were merciless, they tortured him cruelly, endlessly, before his father had finally found him almost three entire years later and rescued him.

From then on, he had learned to fight. From then on, his vision was much brighter. Kept in the dark caves and holes, his eyes had learnt to see under low light, and even in recent years, they hurt under direct sunlight. His captivity was a mixed blessing, as he grew more mature than others, but he lost his childhood innocence. He viewed men and orcs with deep hatred.

Men, with the exception of Lord Aragorn.

Looking at the Palace, the desire to kill grew stronger within him. Easterlings. The very people who had held him. How he wished he could remove every last one from Arda! He had learnt the different forms of combat diligently, waiting, only waiting for a chance to use it against such people.

He stopped himself then.

What was he sounding like?

Was he still an elf? Or had he turned into an orc wearing the disguise of an elf?

He froze, shocked by himself. He was still…himself, wasn't he? He… He was no better than that elf they were fighting, then. The one who even he condemned.

And he was rushing down the same path of blind hate.

How do you put away hatred that has consumed you for so long? How do you return back to your previous life? How can you form friends from your enemies? Can you pretend nothing has happened?

Belegil wondered what had gone wrong with him. He knew that he had never cried. He knew that he was always alone. Detached, even though merry faces and voices surrounded him. As though there was some barrier between them and him.

Strangely, it was Lord Aragorn that had made him feel cared for and involved. Although it was a painful lesson, he knew that the man bothered about him. He had made him feel the way no one ever managed to do. The man had stood firm on his own stand and was the first to make him see that his own ways were not perfect.

But now, he no longer felt anything.

Aragorn, Legolas and Himorn ran on, pursued not by physical beings, but their worry for King Thranduil. The King had not woken much, and was growing increasingly pale.

"Are you alright?" Legolas called to Himorn who was struggling to catch up.

"Y-Yes,' a panting and shaky voice replied.

"You did well, mellon nîn," Legolas reassured him, "you did what you had to."

"Iston," Himorn said somewhat mechanically, "I know."

They were near the main entrance now. Legolas shifted his father's weight slightly. Light as the older elf was, Legolas was unaccustomed to running so quickly with someone on his back, not that his father was a burden to him. It was also not easy ensuring that his movements were not too jerky to jolt his father badly.

"Hurry!" Aragorn pressed them on.

They had to get the King to the healing wing, which was some distance away. The Palace's herbal supplies had almost been depleted, following the sorcery and recent battle injuries. In addition, wherever there was a crazy elf on the loose, there would be no safe place in the vicinity. What the King needed most now was rest for his body to recover.

Carasgon was infuriated. Did the elves know of the exit? Why were they blocking his way! He managed to throw two of the elves off; one last one before freedom! But he could not wait that long. He did not know what was holding him back, but he knew he wanted freedom. He wanted it so badly. The freedom to do whatever he wanted, the freedom to command, the freedom to make them understand. Pure exhilarating freedom!

He pushed hard against the wall, not caring if that elf's blade went through him.

Freedom awaited just that wall away!

Outside, he could walk among the trees; trees that had that sturdy, solid look to them, trees with dark green leaves that were just a shade away from black. He could reside in the dark caves where no one would ever question him. There was the sky too. He remembered it was blue, but what he liked about it was that on certain nights, it would be all pitch black and beautiful.

The wall only slid a crack. He panicked. He had gotten to the right place, hadn't he? If this was not correct, there would not be elves guarding it! The moonlight filtered in, glaring right into his eyes. That would be one more thing he would have to endure before he could reach home. And after proper planning this time, he would return and make Mirkwood beautiful again.

He pushed harder, wondering why that elf under him looked so shocked.

Elladan froze, gasping as the elf allowed himself to be impaled upon his sword, but his shock was even greater as the wall he was forced to lean on gave way under that elf's force. He tried to stop himself from stumbling, but failed.

He fell backwards, watching that elf make to run on him, watching as moonlight suddenly flooded the entire room. He saw that Elrohir and Haldir were equally stunned, so were the other elves who had been pitching a stroke or two into the trio's interwoven swordplay.

He landed on the ground, hard, feeling the air rush out from his lungs as that senile elf trod down on him.

Commanding all his strength, he forced himself up, readying himself to throw his weight onto the elf. As long as he was alive, that elf would never, ever escape.

Belegil saw something happening in the wall. It was falling, and there were figures. His eyes were already well adjusted enough to tell him what he needed. He saw someone wearing the Imladris style of clothing falling…

In a flash, his arrow was flying.

"No!" the elf-child beside him gasped, "he's the elf from Imladris!"

Belegil remained calm, his face stoic, ignoring him. He knew his aim would be true, despite the great distance between them. He had worked hard on this, for this. Whatever the elf did would be too late for his arrow. He had no escape.

He should have been happy, but he felt nothing.

Carasgon did not know why this arrow hurt, but he stumbled as the elf behind him pushed him down then, falling forward. He felt the arrow enter deeper, heard the shaft snap and the tremors it sent up his body. What had happened? As if in response, pain radiated all over his body. He was still confused. He was _supposed_ to be free! Not… dead. He squinted, seeing a faint-outline of the archer behind the raised bow.

Another elf-child, he thought, the next time round, I'll come for you.

And he passed on into the unknown.

He was finally free… from himself.

The elf-children beside Belegil watched the shaft intently. Then they saw what he had been aiming for. And turned to stare at him with fallen jaws. Before he knew it, Belegil was raised and flung into the air twice, the elf-children holding a small celebration for that shot.

Elves whom he had not even known came and congratulated him. There were some mumbled apologies, there were well wishes. Some wished for him to help them with their training. Others asked if he could come for tea.

Belegil felt awkward at all the attention showered on him. Were they only so friendly after he had proven himself?

But an elf sauntered up to him rather unsteadily and hesitantly.

""Goheno nin an un cared nîn," he said, tears misting up in his eyes.

He nodded vaguely, surprised, although the sight of the elf grinning foolishly at his reaction was interesting indeed.

"Hannon le, gwador nîn," another voice chimed in sincerely, "hannon le a phan."

In that sentence, he not only expressed his heartfelt thanks on behalf of all of Mirkwood, but also the acceptance that Mirkwood would always have for its elves. He would always be one of them, even if he did not wish it.

Belegil felt happy.

After many centuries, he had come home.

Legolas held his father's hand while Aragorn and Himorn checked on the wounds, hoping to give every modicum of strength he could. The King accepted it readily, and was starting to regain some colour. Legolas looked tired, Aragorn noticed. Perhaps now that there was nothing he could do, the fatigue was catching up with him.

"Legolas," Aragorn said softly, "you'd better take a rest."

Legolas made to protest, but was cut off.

"We do not need another patient to care for," Himorn added firmly, "Aragorn and I will take care of the King."

Legolas nodded. He knew he was tired. But –

Aragorn seemed to know his hesitation.

"Why don't you rest there?" he asked, pointing to an adjacent bed, "we'll let you know if anything happens."

Many of the poisoned had recovered, especially under Aragorn's healing touch, and there was no shortage of beds now. Legolas smiled, grateful for the suggestion.

A few hours into the night, Himorn bade Aragorn sleep as well. Thranduil still had not woken, though he had been thrashing on the bed occasionally.

"Admit it, Aragorn, you're human," he said teasingly.

The man was too tired to even think of a rejoinder.

The only one awake, Himorn sighed, still wondering if he had done the right thing. The fight with his uncle left him physically and emotionally drained, and even now, it was still replaying in his mind. A slash aimed at the neck. An effective parry. A semi-turn. A thrust. And that dagger through the heart.

As the Chief of the Royal Guards, he had a duty to the King of Mirkwood, but as nephew to Carasgon, he had an obligation to carry out, whether Carasgon was exiled or not. Family was supposed to be more important, was it not so? Immediate family above the family of Mirkwood. What would his father say to his deeds!

Legolas had shot him; why had he still run on? Why couldn't he have given up trying to pursue them? Carasgon had once said that it was his duty to avenge the wrongs done to the family, but Himorn had never agreed with a single word he had spoken. Did that justify his act in any way?

Carasgon was already well dead when Himorn stabbed him. Was it truly necessary to have struck? He only remembered following his battle instincts, unaware of anything else. He had saved his liege, somewhat, but at the cost of family? What had he done? Just what had he done!


	13. Distant Seas, Distant Dawn

Chapter 13 – Distant Seas, Distant Dawn

A weary Calenlas stumbled into the room, but Himorn ignored him, lost in his own thoughts. Both of them were exhausted in different ways that they needed rest and healing for; Calenlas physically, Himorn emotionally. Calenlas came to sit beside his dear friend.

"Carasgon has passed on; we have regained the Palace," he updated Himorn on the happenings, although the other should have guessed it.

Himorn merely nodded, unsure what he should feel about it. This, in a way, was a release for Carasgon, but –

"Shall I tell you a short story?" Calenlas asked, knowing Himorn's love of tales.

Himorn's attention was immediately captured, and even in those deep, sad eyes, a light was being awakened. Calenlas could barely control his smile at his friend's tendencies. He spoke in a light voice,

"There was once a judge, who was to give the verdict for a murder case. It would seem that the guilt of the accused has been proven beyond doubt, but he was unwilling to pass the sentence. The accused was his very own cousin."

Himorn tensed visibly, his breath being caught in his lungs, but Calenlas carried on,

"His cousin pleaded with him, begging him to release him or at least pass a lighter sentence on account of their kinship and closeness. They had grown up together, his cousin also said, how could he betray him at such a time?"

Here, Calenlas paused for effect. Taking another breath, he continued,

"But in the end, the judge ruled with justice, and condemned the murderer. The family of the victim and others of the village cheered him, not because of the shedding of blood, but simply because of his fairness and trustworthiness. Through those few words, he had won their respect, and was not despised for his act against his family."

Himorn kept his head down, understanding what Calenlas was trying to say, but seemingly not willing to accept it. It was as though he needed something else. He needed time for the wounds to heal, he needed some… support.

"Although the judge was often haunted by what he had done, he never regretted it, because he had allowed justice to prevail, and the people were spared from what his cousin could do next. And even when his own family blamed him for his coldness, he could say proudly, with his head held high, that he had done the right thing," Calenlas finished, knowing that Himorn understood what he was imply and hoping that Himorn would listen.

Himorn remained silent for a moment, as though he was battling some inner demons. He knew he had done what he should, but deep down he questioned his own values and principles, deep down he wanted some form of comfort and assurance. Was Calenlas the answer to his prayers? He did not know. Yet, it was good to have someone on his side, someone to support him in whatever he did. He knew he was not totally convinced yet; he would have to think it through within himself and decide on his own. But, as for now, he was satisfied.

"Hannon le, gwador nîn," he said softly.

Calenlas' only response was another pat, and his eyes glazed over in sleep. Himorn smiled for the first time in a long while. His brother always helped in trying to convince himself, when he could not do it on his own. In this present frame of mind, he did not notice that the King had awakened.

"Hannon le, Himorn Hartharion," a cracked voice showed sincere appreciation.

Although Thranduil had only a vague idea of what had happened, he knew, from the fragments that Calenlas had said and what his numbed mind could piece together, that Himorn's contribution in saving him was not small.

Then, as thoughts began to take more meaning, Thranduil panicked.

"Legolas!" he exclaimed urgently, "where is he? Is – Is he…"

"My Lord, he is resting there," Himorn replied quickly before the King could go any further, gesturing to where the Prince lay, chest heaving slightly with even breathing.

Thranduil sighed in relief, closing his eyes in fatigue, "Then all is well."

Himorn was barely able to stay awake now. Perhaps it was the _athelas_ having an effect on him. Perhaps it was some unknown force. But now that the King seemed well, and probably only needed a little rest, he seemed to have lost his will to stay awake. Watching the rhythmic adagio-paced breathing lulled him to sleep before he could arrange for someone to take watch.

Thranduil could barely breathe. He knew he was in a bad state, or at least definitely not one he could fight in. Sweat broke uncontrolled from his forehead and from every pore of his body, drenching him in the salty brine.

Salt, like the sea, his now feverish mind still managed to process.

But he barely had time to do anything about it. He could not see anything, but _they_ were fast behind, chasing him, just that few inches from him. They were the unseen hands of Mandos, coming closer, closer to him.

He was running and running, but he knew he was tiring out. The feet ached from the chafing on the hard stony ground. The muscles were hurting badly, and pulled tense, taut against the bones, under the skin. He felt as though he had lost control of his body, lost every single sense he had come to know. But he knew that if he stopped so much as to take a breath, it would be too late, too late. He had probably lost his mind too, but somehow, something, someone was driving him on. He had to run.

A soft, shuffling noise woke Legolas from his slumber. It was something he had felt, more than knew. An intangible source. His instinct. He was still tired, still drowsy and groggy, but he had to do what he must.

Soft snores told him that Strider was asleep, but that was not his concern now. Himorn and Calenlas were sleeping soundly on chairs beside his father, obviously oblivious to anything that had transpired. Of course, they were tired after all the excitement of recent days. But they should not have failed to notice what Legolas now saw.

King Thranduil was twisting around in bed, thrashing wildly, as times as though trying to hit something. He was covered in sweat, his eyes were moving furiously under his eyelids. In fact, his whole body was tense and his breathing seemed fast and haggard all at once. He seemed to be trying to form words, but no sound other than moans and groans came out.

Legolas took a piece of damp cloth from the side-table and began wiping the sweat off his father. Then he felt how hot his body was. Scorching, burning, seemingly boiling…

He did not know what to do. He had tried to shake Himorn and Calenlas, calling them repeatedly, but both elves ignored him.

"What is going on?" Legolas wondered, his own mind bleary.

They had always been light sleepers. What devilry was this that causes them to behave thus!

"_Ada_," he whispered urgently, "rado na sîdh, _ada_, be at peace…"

He tried shaking the elves again, and called over to Strider, not wanting to leave his father's side.

What should he do now?

"_Ada_," he called, "_ada_!"

He dipped the warm cloth in t he basin again. Strider woke up, still somewhat confused, but one look at Legolas' frantic action snapped him into an alert state.

"Legolas? What is it?" Strider rushed over to his friend's side, placing a hand on the King's forehead.

His face immediately showed worry and almost fear. Legolas wondered what it meant, but he knew it did not bode well. He continued dabbling at his father's face and neck, while Strider ran off for his herbs. Soon, the scent of boiling _athelas_ filled the room once again.

At this, Himorn and Calenlas suddenly awoke, almost together, startling both Strider and Legolas.

"Why didn't you wake earlier?" Legolas almost shouted, obviously losing his hold on his emotions.

"You did not call, my Prince," Himorn said defensively, "how were we to know?"

Himorn paused at Legolas' confused look. "Did you?" he asked more softly this time.

Everyone wore bewildered looks on their faces, but their attention shifted instantly as King Thranduil gave a soft exclamation of delight, sounding as though he was in some form of paradise.

Thranduil felt as though he had been whisked into some beautiful natural garden. As far as he could see, there were plants all around. The ground he stood on was sweet-smelling grass. There were trees interspersed on the green meadows; small flowers, pink, blue, yellow, red, orange, purple, all hues and shades of gaiety in full blossom. A deer flitted across the lush fields. A rabbit found its way to the foot of a tree and paused there, ears raised slightly, its head cocked as though listening to some soft whistling of the wind. The whole place quivered with life and excitement.

A lake meandered tenderly into this Eden, the water singing the songs of Ulmo, the many beings in it darting, swimming freely. Ripple after ripple broke the surface, telling tales of the many who lived in the waters and lands. Slight splashes broke the placid, glassy surface, beads of water spraying up, and back down again, like gems falling into the water, stirring the surface, stirring all life. The cloth-like waves moved fluidly, slowly, lullingly, each crest and trough carrying soft shrieks of delight. He moved towards it, enraptured, entranced by its beauty and life.

Life, he thought, life that flows ever on.

And there was the vast blue sky, and there, he could see the horizon, the line where sky and mountain became one. Suddenly, everything that had troubled him disappeared, blown away by those soothing, whispering breezes that caused the white cotton in the heavens to morph into the many shapes and sizes. Here, there was only light, nothing else. A light spirit, a light heart, and the pure Light.

The gentle sun warmed the land, bathing it in an ethereal glow. He was thrilled by all that he saw, transported with joy, prompted to run and sing with no cares to bother him. He wanted to shout with all his might and soul. Despite his years, he felt young enough to do anything.

It was as though he was back in his early childhood, on a trip led by the Mirkwood Academy, listening to the wise masters explaining the intricacies of the human body, experiencing everything seemingly for the first time. He had been a reluctant student, never bothering to understand beyond what he had to. Now he knew, that was far, far better than the politics and cares of adulthood. What would he not give for another of those lessons in anatomy!

He breathed easily and deeply, feeling the air enter his nose, down the trachea, through the bronchi, the bronchioles. He felt the sweetness of the air fill every single alveolus in his lungs. Then he felt his diaphragm move up, intercostal muscles directing his rib-cage inwards. The pressure of the lungs changing, warm air slowly coming back out.

He sighed in sheer contentment.

He missed those carefree days.

Legolas sighed in relief; he would not have his father leave thus. Sighing was something he had had too much of, but knew he would still be doing. His eyelids were drooping once more. Turning, he saw Himorn and Calenlas, both collapsed in deep sleep once more. He ignored them, and the sleep gnawing at him, creeping up within him. And Strider, who had seen the many enchanted in the past days, recognized what had happened.

"It's that spell," he said, noticing that Legolas turned slightly towards him.

"King Thranduil. The knife that stabbed him. It was bewitched as well," he elaborated somewhat.

He recalled how the healers had often felt lethargic for no reason, and dropped off once they did not involve themselves in some deed. All of them had at on point or another, given in to slumber.

At least, all of them, except the human.

How this had been so, he had no idea. It could have been the Númenórean blood in him that was working wonders. The blood that gave him the tenacity of both Elf and Man, the will to dominate yet the power to appreciate and the ability to live long enough to do that.

Legolas nodded at the theory. This was indeed possible, but how did that explain why Legolas himself had heard his father's stirrings, but the other two elves had not heard his shouts. Or it could be that the spell only worked on certain elves? Estel had no answer to that.

Suddenly, the surroundings rolled away, flying away like some curtain in the wind. The sun folded in within itself and disappeared, the last hints of light and warmth burning out. The sky was midnight-black, raven, starless and void. The ground turned to stone, sharp stones that cut into his feet. Gripped by an unexplainable panic, Thranduil ran again.

He felt the sweat pouring out anew, trickling like blood down his leg. He felt that his leg hurt badly, as though it was being wrenched from his body. The pain was the searing form, vivid and yet numbing all at once. He ran and ran, not caring, unable to care. He had to find his way out! He had to go on!

Something came into his path. He could not see it, but he felt that it was there, and he hit it away, hard. He managed to run a little more, then felt something catch hold of him, restraining him tightly. No! He must not be stopped! He had to go on! He had to reach that divide between Heaven and Earth!

His instincts took over, and with amazing speed, his hidden knife, the one he always carried, flew into one hand, gleaming menacingly in the sudden full moon. He vaguely saw that form holding him again and again, and he stabbed hard at it, again, until it finally gave way. He was frenzied. He was hysterical. Tears of despair and fear flowed unguardedly from his eyes. He ran and ran…

"Legolas!" Strider practically screamed, "let go!"

Legolas finally complied, his arms now too weak to restrain his struggling father. As soon as he had released his hold, his father promptly fell onto the floor, still writhing. Legolas quickly carried him back, still struggling, onto the bed. Only Legolas' broken nose and blood dripping from his arms showed what happened. But he did not cry out. He did not want to. He was too filled with grief and worry even to notice the wounds.

What had come over his father? For a split second, his father had opened his eyes, wide and terrified eyes, and without any warning, a blade pierced his arm, once, twice, thrice at the same spot. Why had his father done this! Just what was doing this to his father? What had _it_ done to him!

Strider deftly worked on the wound, eliciting a sharp hiss as he cleaned it and applied some pressure. But it was also this pain that had kept Legolas from his usual protests against being cared for. He had to admit that he _had_ lost quite some blood, and he was very appreciative of the fact that Strider still allowed him to stay beside his father, instead of confining him to the nearest bed.

But Legolas did not know what he could do. Strider had prepared _methalas, _but its effect seemed limited now. When Legolas touched his father, the latter only thrashed about more. Strider's touch was not that much better. To top it off, Legolas was feeling tired once more. The spell found a way to have effects on him as well.

Legolas dabbed, with his good hand, at his father's neck again, wiping the fresh coat of sweat off.

"_Ada_," he whispered, "boe nach thalion. Boe darthach sen."

Legolas felt that his other hand was growing numb, but he ignored it. Whenever he touched his father' skin, his fingers would constantly attempt to pry them away, but Legolas would not let that stop him. Strider administered another dosage of oral medicine, moving fast before the King prevented it. There was nothing much that they could do now. All that was of effect was only King Thranduil himself.

Was someone trying to suffocate him? Thranduil wondered why it seemed to be so persistent and almost comforting in its presence. He had been refreshed with some water, even if it tasted queer, but his vision had cleared up a little. And that warmth had gone.

It is nowhere near comforting, His mind told him, it is hot, burning like the afternoon sun.

Is the sun burning? another voice seemed to speak out from the depths of his mind, it is always warm.

There is no warmth, the first repeated, everything that falls onto you will be either boiling or cold. That hand was cold. Mere pleasant coldness.

He wondered what his mind was trying to tell him. And he knew at once, that it was falsehood. But he could not fight it. His movements were slowing, and he was panting heavily now. His limbs no longer responded to his wishes, buckling, hesitant, acting on their own free will. He wondered what he was running from, and he stopped, catching his breath, sitting on the thorny road.

There was no longer any pain, or he was too worn out to notice it. He looked around. This place felt so surreal, as though he was trapped in a dream, or, more likely, nightmare. He realised that nothing was behind him now. And he was sitting on soft, fine stony ground. He touched it a little. He could not see clearly, but he knew he could not be wrong.

It was sand. The beautiful sand beside that blessed sea. White, pearly, sparkling as though with the light of Aman in it. He walked towards the sloshing sound, kicking at the sand, feeling the salty breeze cause each crystal to rise into the air and curl down again in the mesmerising way. He was beginning to see once more. The azure sky surfaced, those clouds, the vast blue realm! Then, he caught a glimpse of his goal.

There, where azure heavens and emerald waters meet. There, where he could rest his weary feet. There, where he could in happiness sit. The place where he would greet his son!

He smiled, thinking, craving for that.

Reaching that was no mere feat, and having to bear the journey's heat. But since his pathway was now lit, that was the only thing that seemed fit.

He wondered what made him think thus, but it was as though he was following the rules of a game. What would he win in this case? He only wished to leave this place. He wished to be back in the land of the living. And he knew, as he stepped into the water, that he was getting closer. He was only an islet away, that islet with a hill that reached into the unknown heights.

The water did not feel real, either. It did not wet his clothes. It never became deeper, or at least, as long as he held onto hope, that the Valar would help him, that Ilúvatar Himself, would render aid, the sea remained shallow. Just that little more to victory.

Some berries floated over to him, and he ate them, after recognising and hoping that they were not poisonous. He felt suddenly refreshed, and plodded on faster. Here, the water barely stopped his movements, and it was as though he was merely walking on land. The sea-bed was soft, massaging and comfortable. He probably would not mind enjoying this sensation that little longer. Then, just as he reached the islet before the horizon, everything changed.

And it was worse. Thorns sprung beneath his feet, and he could feel each one pricking deeply into his skin, even though, as an elf, he should have been able to walk lightly, unharmed by them. It was pure torture to walk on such land, and he resolved to take larger steps.

It was worse, now that he had seen gladness and the End, and was thrust all the way down into this misery. The full moon appeared again, and dead flowers lay forgotten, strewn sparsely on the ground. Then, a vision flashed before him. Legolas. Legolas lying motionless on the stone, sinking slowly into the ground, into a growing, enveloping glob.

"Baw!" He cried, "Legolas! Erio!"

Then, the image faded, and Thranduil was once more running on and on. And Legolas appeared beside him.

"_Ada_?" Legolas asked, "man trasta le?"

Both of them were suddenly strolling in a sun-lit world and the thorns vaporised and those flowers came alive once more. Nothing as good as those meadows or the sea, but good enough. Still, Thranduil could not forget anything.

"Legolas, ion nîn?" Thranduil was surprised at how hollow his voice sounded, "tirio i dhelu men."

Legolas could not understand anything that his father spoke of. What was he to be wary of?

"Man hain, _ada_?" Legolas asked softly, wondering if his father could indeed hear him.

"Hain," his father repeated softly, "nar anuir esichil ven."

"Iston, _ada_," Legolas said.

That seemed to calm his father down somewhat, but Legolas was still confused. All that his father said was unfathomable, but there was no time to think now. Suddenly, the King grew tense again.

"Noro, Legolas," his father whispered urgently, "noro lagor!"

Legolas wondered how he behaved in his father's nightmare. How had he even been part of it? He gave Strider a questioning look, but the human evidently only knew as much as he.


	14. Because of You

Chapter 14 – Because of You

The road was getting harder to trek.

We are going uphill now, Thranduil realised, looking back to ensure that Legolas was following.

If they were moving upwards, it would only mean one thing: they were reaching the End. Would that be freedom or another chapter? Thranduil did not know. But he had seen it, had seen it thrice. He knew he was reaching, and Legolas would also. Then, again, he stumbled, falling uncontrolled, Legolas also tripping beside him.

He watched the ground start to shift.

"Baw!" he shouted, "Legolas! Baw!"

He only watched, helpless as the ground swallowed his son, devouring him mercilessly.

"_Ada_, Boe padach ah egor pen nin," Legolas managed to say, weakened, but his eyes bore the fire of Thranduil, Oropher, and all before them, "noro, _ada_"

As though Legolas had commanded him, Thranduil turned and ran. He felt his breathing quicken again. If Legolas asked him to run, he would. He would do anything for his son, simply because he was his son. Legolas was his son; that was all that mattered. His son. Then, how could he leave him behind! What kind of father would leave his son to die? No! He must go back! He must do something!

Legolas could only hope that he had done the right thing. It was truly hard to imagine what his father was seeing, but if he could not cause his father to awake, he could try to help him go through whatever it was haunting him. Perhaps that might help him wake, eventually. The tears were brimming in his eyes now. He was desperate to do something, anything that could help, but there was nothing to be done. Now, he was desperate enough to do anything.

He felt Strider's hand on his shoulder, offering him some form of comfort and strength. Then slowly, he began to sing, making up words as he went along if he could not remember, and letting one fragment flow into the next rather incongruently, but the long song still went on,

_I only want to sing;_

_Is this too much to ask?_

_Music my hope will bring,_

_In silence, despair falls as dusk._

_In this world of vanity,_

_My heart wants no other thing._

_Is not sweet music more lovely?_

_I only want to sing._

_Because of You, my Friend true,_

_Blessed, my heart is no longer blue._

_Before I leave, anything I'll do_

_Because of You; I'll sing for You._

_I only want to sing,_

_Even when we in sunlight bask._

_Until the hills our voices ring,_

_Until darkness no more can mask._

_Until You come and find me,_

_Until the end's beginning,_

_Even where light will never be,_

_I only want to sing._

_Because of You, my Guardian true,_

_Befriending me though I'm a fool,_

_Believing You I only grew_

_Because of You; I'll sing for You._

_You made the stars,_

_You give us rest,_

_Your hope fills us,_

_You give the best._

_We only trust,_

_We find our nest,_

_We find help fast,_

_We find the best._

_What gift return I that befits such love?_

_What present can I give to my King?_

_What have I that equals that above?_

_What can I do but only sing!_

_Shining brightly as the sun,_

_Twinkling, glistering without rest,_

_Always submitting to no one,_

_Ready as ever to stand the test._

_Honourable traveller of old_

_Over all the worlds doth fly._

_Presence more valuable than gold,_

_Eternal gem in the sky._

_Retire sweetly for the night;_

_Every hurt and weary soul now mends._

_Strong exceedingly is Your might,_

_The stars forever are Your friends._

_Take me to the hills,_

_Raise me to see the stars._

_Undying hope my heart now fills,_

_Shining as though nothing mars._

_Then my heart to no fear yields._

_Because of You, my Father true,_

_Because of You, I fear no ill._

_Beholding You, my strength renew_

_Because of You; I'll sing for You._

A song that praised Ilúvatar, the One, the Creator, the Guardian, the Friend, the Father. A song of well-placed hope. He sang, for his father, for himself, for everyone who was around to hear. He repeated the song again, letting its message, its soul float on and on, lingering in the dark air as a beacon of unfailing light. Dawn would break soon. As long as they held onto hope, as long as they trusted enough.

There it was! Thranduil faced the End again, hearing the sweet song calling from beyond there. Those same words that his melethril had sung so many years ago to Legolas when the infant was crying. The same song that she had sung for him once, and playfully refused to do so again, claiming that the song was too long, but knowing that he would not mind its length as long as it was she who had sung it. This same song that she had presented to him after he had come back alive from the Battle of Dagorlad, from the Last Alliance.

It was still dark, and it had begun to rain heavily. Strangely, the rain seemed wet and cold, affecting him in a way he had never known. He shivered, slipping clumsily again (some elf he was!), but he was looking at _It_ once more. The voice grew louder and sweeter, its melodious strains drawing out every lost ounce of strength, every lost emotion in him. Then, the song trailed away and ended.

Because of you, I'll try my best, he thought. Because of Eru, because of his wife, because of Legolas…

He stepped into a burst of light. And –

"Legolas?" he asked, "why are you here?"

Then paused.

That tone he used was wrong; too sharp.

Legolas looked shocked. His father's temperature was suddenly gone. His body had relaxed again. Everything was back to normal. Normal, which was what?

"I have every right to go where I will," Legolas said defensively, "why can I not be here?"

Thranduil sighed, "You are too proud, my son."

"So are you."

Thranduil opened his mouth to speak again, but Legolas had left the room, followed by Strider's anxious gaze, and the yawns and stretches of Himorn and Calenlas.

Legolas was inexplicably angry, not so much with his father or anyone else than himself. He wiped more hot tears from his eyes. He _had_ been weeping too much of late, but he could not stop himself. And the tears mingled with the heavy rain, indiscernible from each other, flowing rapidly down his face. He knew his father _was_ right; he was too conceited, he assumed too much. Like that conversation, when he had thought…

It was still rather dark, especially with those rain-clouds hanging above Arda, but he did not need to see anything to know where he was headed. He had no particular destination in mind, and for now, he was very content with walking among the trees, looking at their lush leaves, feeling their sturdy trunks and branches, hearing their soft voices.

The trees were not exactly comforting. True, they did whisper gentle admonitions and encouragements, but still, he felt nothing. It was as though they could not reach into the deepest level of his heart. While they made sense intellectually, they did not do so emotionally. He sighed, feeling the worry of the trees; their concern, just like Estel's. And his father's.

He might as well return home now. It had been a night since he had last seen the Palace. Dawn had broken quite some time ago and there might be something he could settle that would take his mind off these. He crossed that river, treading on the portcullis that he had used too often in the recent days. So much had happened within such a short span of time. The trap into which he had fallen into had been clearly marked to prevent anyone from falling in before Osgaron the builder managed to find suitable wood for a ladder and a sound door.

He walked down the corridor, remembering the fear that they had been too late, that they were faced with far too impossible odds. And when he heard those strains of melody, he had been so hopeful and desperate to move faster and reach his father. He had planned to tell his father how sorry he was, how everything was his fault and that he should have known better. He had been willing to even beg for mercy and forgiveness, and take whatever punishment his father saw fit.

All he wanted was just his father, taking him into his arms as though he was still that young elf-child and saying how much he loved him, that he would never be alone, that everything would work out fine.

"Maybe not," he thought miserably, "maybe never."

Perhaps it was just that he lost hope too easily, but he felt that, this time, things may not work out that well after all. He turned into his room, happy to find that everything was just as he had left them, except for…

There was a note, hastily scrawled in Aragorn's writing that did not belong there.

_Dear Legolas,_

_Please take good care of yourself._

_The sea raged, the wind engaged,_

_Lightning joined the two realms._

_The ships sank, rivers broke their banks,_

_Who is at disaster's helm?_

_Innocent lives lost; is pride worth this cost?_

_Cruel, unstoppable rumble sends dignities on a tumble_

_The fire hesitated, unsure whither warmth should go;_

_The air was friend and the sea too,_

_Yet both erred and spake truth, O lo!_

_Through fire, the elements have now eaten a hole._

_O heartless storm that evil wings bore,_

_Release not they fury, neither ever roar._

_All the many souls that thou wickedly tore,_

_How canst one piece them back evermore?_

_Gwador chîn,_

_Aragorn_

Aragorn? That man could write? Legolas wondered how his friend had been inspired to write this, finish it within so short a time, reach his room and leave before he was there, but considering how long he could have spent in the woods…

The man could actually write. Although Legolas could find ways of embellishing the poem, it was actually rather well written. It bore some semblance of elven order, yet human dissonances, merging to form its own style.

How had that human learned to write?

He read it again.

This time, it was as though the words finally sank in.

He had finally read into it, understanding every word.

Legolas wept anew, tears flowing as though released by opened prison doors, streaking down his face, drop after drop, forming an endless stream. He knew what he had to do now.

He ran out of his room, out of the Palace, back across the river to that healing wing, using his arms to carelessly brush away those tears of guilt, those tears of repentance. He now cried, not because of anger or frustration, not because of some perceived unfairness, but because of remorse, true, heart-felt regret. And his fingers still clutched the piece of parchment, tightly, with no intention whatsoever of letting go.

In the morning air, his lithe figure sprinted, forming only a golden blur as the sun's glow reflected in his hair. It was growing warmer now, the sun almost reaching its zenith. More than enough time had passed, and now, he could only think of one thing: His father. This time, he would not let anything stop him. He would do all that he had purposed to for such a long time. He had prepared what he would say, and he would say it all, even if his father would not heed him.

He reached the wing and stopped abruptly. His father was still on the bed after these hours, eyes opened in the world of dreams. There was no one else present. Himorn and Calenlas must have gone back to their duties, and as for Strider, he could be anywhere. Suddenly, he hesitated, feeling more nervous with each passing second.

He closed his eyes, trying to ready himself, trying to assure himself. Now that he _knew_ what he had to do, he understood it all, and he _would_ do it. He _must_. He walked towards his father, hearing each soft footstep as though it was some loud drumming sound, like his heart.

Thranduil stirred a little.

Legolas took another tentative step forward.

Thranduil awoke at his approach, looking at him, surprised.

"Legolas?"

That was enough.

Legolas flew into his father's bosom, hoping it would not hurt any wound, sobbing again as his father patted him gently on the head, then moved to pull him even closer. The other hand ran through his hair, raking the locks gently, coarse fingers feeling the now disorderly braids.

"Goheno nin, _ada_!" Legolas managed to cry out amidst the chokes, "goheno nin…"

Thranduil's tear slipped out, lost in his son's hair. What would he not give to have his son so close to him for every moment of his existence?

"Sen tôg ú-vaur goheni," Thranduil murmured in turn, " goheno nin, ion nîn"

Legolas smiled slightly, "A cerich ú-nad i vaur gohenad nîn, _ada_."

He snuggled deeper into the embrace, feeling more secure, more glad than ever, and he knew that the feeling was mutual.

Aragorn watched from the doorway, smiling at the love displayed before him. Love that transcends all, even death, love that gives a son the strength to fight enchantments for his father!

He had no way of knowing that a mere poem was all it took for this. In fact, he still did not know who had put plans for the poem into his head. He still wondered how he had managed to write a decent poem for the first time in his life. But he did not need to know the answers.

He left the wing, giving the family their deserved privacy.

"_Ada_?" Legolas whispered, "I know I will never be perfect or even like Laeglas, but I'll try."

"No, my son," Thranduil said, then realising that Legolas might misinterpret him, quickly added, "you do no have to try. I only want you to be Legolas, my son. If you cannot comprehend Law, so be it. Laeglas could never shoot an arrow in the right direction, much less to save a life, and save it twice!"

Legolas chuckled softly at the thought of an elf failing in archery. He knew what his father was trying to say. The gratitude in the older elf's eyes completed his words. He responded with a similar look.

"You are Legolas, not Laeglas, not anyone else. Be who you are; that's all I'll ever ask."

And they remained in warm fellowship for the remnant of the day, and in the many days, months and years to come.


	15. At Last

Chapter 15 – At Last

Two years had passed, and Mirkwood was peaceful, or at least, more peaceful, once again. Of the enemies that had stepped foot into Mirkwood, none had lived to tell the tale.

Aragorn made his way to Mirkwood, this time in no need of a rush, and with Mithrandir tagging along. There was so much to see along the way that had always been missed. There were always flowers blossoming, fruits ripening, saplings growing, or those antics of an occasional animal to look out for.

Legolas had just come from a council meeting, and was rather pleased to be excused from post-council chatter. Even so, he could not help looking at the man with suspicion.

"Getting worried now?" Aragorn teased, his hood already thrown back before his arrival.

Mithrandir put in a word in a light spirit, "Unless I am also false, there is no reason he should be."

They enjoyed a moment of shared laughter, and Mithrandir left to seek the King.

"Guess who I am now," Aragorn asked playfully.

"Estel…" Legolas sighed, currently uninterested in the game.

"No, guess again" Aragorn began humming some unknown melody to himself nonchalantly.

"Strider?" The elf had no choice, he needed to get the human to stop humming. Well, he also did not enjoy being a spoilsport, but he wondered how long he was going to take to guess.

"No." A cunning smile.

Legolas moaned audibly this time, "Don't tell me you have yet another name, my dear Estel-Strider-Telcontar-Thorongil-Aragorn-Elessar-Envinyatar and Ranger of the North…"

"No, just Aragorn now," Aragorn replied in a more serious tone, "I've thought it all through."

The two friends smiled, knowing full well what Aragorn was trying to say.

He was ready to face his destiny.

He was ready to tread his path, wherever it led him.

There was only soothing laughter from the duo as they walked amidst the trees of Mirkwood, some of which had shed their ashen coat. Catching up on the past years seemed to require years in itself, and none of them noticed they were moving progressively South. It was the sharp clang of metal that finally reminded them.

A small handful of spiders had decided to forage northwards, and an elf-child was dispatching every last one of them with deadly efficiency. Although his weapon seemed rather queer, to say the least. Legolas and Aragorn went over.

"Belegil!" Aragorn recognised him at once, "why are you here?"

"Can I not be here? I belong in Mirkwood and have as much right to be here as any wood-elf," Belegil said almost indignantly, although he knew that was not what Lord Aragorn was asking.

Legolas laughed softly at the parallels between that elf-child and himself. That child will have much to learn, then, or will he be the one learning from the elf?

Aragorn's words brought Legolas out from his musings, "Out of curiosity, what weapon were you using?"

Belegil seemed somewhat hesitant, but with two pairs of eyes looking intently at his rather large sheath, he had no choice. Unsheathing them, he passed one to each of the two, who were looking particularly looming now. Like most other wood-elves, he had chosen used twin weapons for close combat, and the ivory hilts were of traditional elven craft, with golden leaves carved into in. Legolas and Aragorn looked closely, but the more of the weapon they say, the more amazed they were.

Unlike an elven dagger, or a dagger of any king, his curved blade was longer, more than two arms' length, with a thickness of a half-inch on its inside while the other end tapered off to form a regular blade. Near its tip, the metal protruded out and tapered gradually in the other direction such that it formed a dwarven axe-head, or at least half of the usual axe. It was truly a weapon neither had ever seen, and neither felt accustomed to the triangular-cross-section grip.

"Interesting," Legolas said finally.

Belegil looked almost terrified, but Legolas smiled, "You forged these on your own?"

A nod confirmed his thinking.

"Very well done, indeed," Legolas praised the handicraft, noticing that Belegil's face brightened almost instantly. After all, one was not commended daily by his Prince.

Aragorn looked closely, and even with his limited knowledge of weapon-smithing, he could tell that the evenness of the metal was something that required skill. The weapon was still fairly new, having only a few scratches on it, and it had been polished to an exceedingly lustrous shade. Clear resonance from gentle taps confirmed that much effort had gone into the blades, if they could be called as such.

Neither of them missed the carved letters in three languages and scripts. There was Sindarin, in Tengwar, using the Mode of Beleriand, the Common Tongue in its Rohirric script, and Khuzdûl in the Dwarven Runes.

It was most amazing that the vengeful Belegil would not only spare humans, but also be on good terms with them and even befriend dwarves. All these, since Estel's appearance. Would he find acquaintances in orcs next? Legolas did not know what to think.

"And what's this?" Aragorn was back to playing the inquisitive human. He was pointing to the bundle in Belegil's arms, squinting as though hoping to see through the thick fabric.

"Baruk Khazâd," Belegil said automatically, in an almost perfect dwarvish accent, except that his voice was too light. Then, he became aware of his slip and blushed, stuttering as he tried to translate.

"Axes of the Dwarves," Legolas finished for him, apparently growing impatient at the elf's inability to speak.

Belegil and even Aragorn stood amazed that the Prince of Mirkwood would actually understand that tongue.

"Mandatory subject when I was younger," Legolas shrugged, offering that as a means of explanation.

"Go then," Legolas said approvingly to the elf-child, "you'd better get it to them soon, and try not to be so careless."

After some polite words, Belegil set off.

"So, why did you have to learn Khuzdûl?" Aragorn asked, wondering if Legolas had said everything.

"Who knows?" Legolas replied nonchalantly, "admit it, it's a good tongue to insult anyone with."

They laughed and walked towards the Palace once more.

"Did I tell you about the humans he brought over?" Legolas asked, a hint of mirth in his voice.

Aragorn shook his head. This might prove interesting.

"He was pestering Melanel to ready more accommodation, and getting Brondil to treat them. Of course, he had to get badly scratched along the way, so he had to join the queue too."

Aragorn laughed lightly, remembering that any injury or symptom that were not extremely well hidden was immediately awarded the chief healer's attention.

"Well, Belegil has hardly ever been attended to by Brondil, and while he was waiting, the human on one side of him coughed."

Aragorn interrupted with one of his coughs, causing Legolas to laugh so hard that he could not carry on.

"Alright, then, another man sneezed – Now, don't try imitating everything (Aragorn had a sore look on his face) – and some elf-child came out of Brondil's room crying. Then, Belegil apparently got a little worried when an elf screamed from within the room, so he ran all the way out of the wing."

Aragorn laughed, loudly this time, imagining the elf in such a state. To think the elf could stand firm in the battle against the Carasgon and the Easterlings, but all it took were some little noises to fell him!

"Basically, what happened was that the elf-child in the room had tripped over Brondil's straw mat, and fell. So, being already very uptight, all it took was for a little strand of loose straw to tickle him in the nose, and he screamed. But, sadly, Belegil did not know that, and to him, it was the final straw," Legolas finished, laughing inwardly at his pun.

Aragorn could not resist laughing again.

"Poor Belegil! So what happened?"

"It would seem that he ran just as it was his turn, which made Brondil chase after him. And let's just say that Belegil ran into me, and I gave him a sympathetic look as Brondil dragged him back."

Another laugh.

"That's all you did?"

A pause, as though someone was thinking, although this was definitely not the case.

"I think I mentioned something about humans being very prone to sicknesses and injuries, and that he was very blessed with human companions that do not try to kill him at the suggestion of seeking a healer…"

A duck, which was just in time, as the back of a hand reached where a head was.

"Actually, doesn't he seem so much like you? Perhaps you would befriend a dwarf after all!"

The elf finally got an excuse to hit the human.

"It looks as though things will be better," Elrond said.

"We shall see," Galadriel answered cryptically.

Elrond expressed some concern, "Have you recovered completely?"

"Yes, I would think so," The Lady of Light replied, "although it was not necessary for you to drain my energy thus badly."

"I apologise, my Lady," Elrond did look regretful, "I feared more for my son."

"We shall talk no more of this," Galadriel put an end to it, then as though suddenly remembering, she added, "Mirkwood and Lórien intend to hold a joint celebration of victory. Does Imladris have such intentions?"

"If it should be in the next few months, I fear Imladris would have to prepare ourselves and the neighbouring villages for the cold winter. Unlike the other realms, we have yet to begin our preparations, and are obliged to help the villages in Arnor," Elrond gave another rueful look.

Galadriel nodded. So they would proceed on their own. "Still, you ought to send a party over," she said.

"Estel should be there. He could bring tidings," Elrond thought over the issue as the image of Galadriel disappeared.

"What!" King Thranduil looked set to roar away the entire forest.

Mithrandir repeated his words, eyes twinkling with mischief, and his grin grew wider as he spoke.

"What do you think of this?" He asked.

Thranduil seemed too stunned to reply.

"You-You say this is the Lady's idea?" Thranduil finally managed to stutter.

"She is merely seeking a little amusement, in recompense for his unwillingness to render more aid," Mithrandir had the enigmatic aura around him once more.

"Lord Elrond could not have done much more," Thranduil felt inclined to defend his friend, "by leading Aragorn along, he had given much help."

"I believe she has more scores than this to settle with him," Mithrandir's eyes were filled with mirth.

"And you are in favour of it?" Thranduil found this hard to believe.

Mithrandir seemed almost nonplussed at the King's reluctance, "It will not hurt for you to be a child for a day, will it?"

Thranduil had never seen the wizard in such high spirits, and besides the idea _did_ sound interesting, since he had a certain agenda against their common to-be-victim. This was totally unexpected. The most regal members known in Arda behaving in such a manner?

Thranduil grinned. Then, he would relive his youth once more and join in the mischief!

The day of the feast came, and preparations started in the early morning. Unable to sleep anymore from the bustle and his own excitement, Aragorn slipped into Legolas' room. The elf had had a long day previously, or he would have already woken up. Out of a certain penchant for mischief, he thumped the elf's sleeping form hard. (Of course, that was after ensuring that Legolas' knife was miraculously teleported from under the pillow, and the other blade by his bed had somehow vaporised.)

Legolas almost jumped up to hit the ceiling, and yet another blade found its way into his palm. Aragorn stood stunned in shock as the still-bleary elf pointed the knife threateningly close at his neck. After a full minute later, Legolas finally recognised the intruder and lowered the blade, un-freezing the human, who had been holding his breath throughout that entire minute, in the process.

"You scared me," Legolas broke the silence as he began to dress.

"Now, let's not forget who was pointing a weapon at whom," Aragorn said in mock indignant tone as he made a mental note to check for more hidden weapons.

"You could have left me to rest longer," Legolas reminded him.

"And miss the chance to wake you? Never," Aragorn laughed, "now that you're awake, let's make the most of it!"

Before long, Aragorn had dragged the elf into the field and they were running freely, blissfully around. The grass was green, the sky was a beautiful azure shade, and nothing could supersede the exuberance they felt. The shrill chirping of the birds, the refreshing rush of the wind, the sight of all forms of life at their best, even if it was nearing the end of autumn, only awoke in them strong feelings of joy and gladness and vivacious spirits.

Even though Legolas' captivity had ended more than two years ago, he had not been given the chance to run in such an unrestrained and careless manner. And now, he did not regret sacrificing the extra sleep. He was far more rested now than he would if he had slept. Finally they stopped, tired and exhausted, sitting in the middle of cool grass.

By now, Haldir, Himorn and Calenlas had excused themselves from the preparations and joined them, talking idly about the upcoming feast.

"I still don't understand what has happened," Aragorn said, changing the topic after a brief silence, "why would Carasgon want to kill so many?"

"Carasgon has always been an enigma and he shall remain a mystery," Legolas answered, "he was consumed by hatred and at the end, perhaps even he did not know why he did that."

"But wouldn't he have much time to think?" Aragorn asked.

Calenlas added, "The deaths of the many elves are no small matter to be handled rashly. The spell brought down thirty-two, the spiders took forty-eight, the Easterling blades twelve, and he himself, two. If he wanted revenge against Mirkwood, he should not have personally taken out those two from Imladris. I find him very incomprehensible."

"Then let it remain that way," Himorn said, "if you try to recreate his thoughts, you may only meet his end."

The others nodded.

"Is it true that you used _melethlas_ to heal them?" Legolas asked Aragorn curiously.

Aragorn nodded, "Yes, I used it with _athelas_, but even I did not fully expect it to work."

"The hands of a King are he hands of a healer," Himorn reminded him, "that should count for something too."

"It would seem that sometimes, in fact, often, Eru chooses the smallest or weakest to work with, for that shows his power most," Haldir philosophised.

All present only had one conclusion in their mind: Thank Eru Ilúvatar!

It was then that Melanel came to call them for the feast, and they went presently, each looking forward to the sumptuous meal.

King Thranduil and Mithrandir were already seated, and they motioned for the younger ones to join them.

"Aragorn, I have yet to thank you for all you have done. I am impressed with the way you handled the… incident," Thranduil began, "you have done well."

Aragorn looked somewhat shocked at the compliment, before hastily regaining composure, "Thank you, King Thranduil, but the credit is not to claim. Very often, I have been guided along."

"By what?" Mithrandir pressed.

"It is hard to say," Aragorn tried to put things over clearly, "it was as though someone was talking within my head. Either way, I am glad to be counted worthy by Eru to act."

"You've heard the voices too?" Legolas asked excitedly.

"Yes," Aragorn nodded, happy that someone shared his sentiments, "I think one of them may be the Lady Galadriel's, but whose the other is, I cannot tell, although it is the one that spoke the most to me."

"How does that voice speak?" Haldir asked curiously.

Aragorn paused to think for a moment. "Matter-of-factly," he said.

"Hypnotising-ly," Legolas put in.

Not to be outdone, Aragorn added, "Monotonously."

"Drearily and dully."

"Long-windedly."

The elf would not give in, "Verbosely."

Everyone present was on the verge of breaking into laughter at the word game, and they wondered just what was the voice like, especially since many words were merely synonyms of each other.

"Now that I think about it, I have always thought the voice to be from an elleth," Aragorn's imagination was known to have a knack of running wild, "I always picture her with long, flowing black hair, wearing a tiara and a beautiful dress, perhaps one with many sequins…"

Coincidentally, at the same time, a mighty earthquake, with Imladris as its epicentre roared and spread throughout Arda. It must have been the unpredictable weather of the season.

And the weather certainly seemed to affect even the elves. Mithrandir, Thranduil and Haldir were doubled over from laughing, Haldir falling off his chair a few moments later. Thranduil's fair face was a deep shade of red, as the blood rushed to his head from such a laugh that he had never enjoyed since many centuries ago. Mithrandir, looked as though he was young once again, or rather, he looked as though he was a mass of soft gel.

"So, which lady is that?" Aragorn asked, bemused by what was going on.

No one who knew the answer was able to reply. By now, most other elves had joined in the contagious and unstoppable laughter. Aragorn was beginning to get annoyed now. Then Legolas, who had only just realised his and the human's folly, whispered into his ear. Aragorn's face reddened instantly, before he too exploded into laughter.

For no apparent reason, another tremor rocked Imladris while the trees of Lórien and Mirkwood laughed merrily.


	16. Alone?

Chapter 16 – Alone?

_I only want to sing_

Is this too much to ask? 

_Music, my hope will bring;_

_In silence, despair falls as dusk._

_In this world of vanity,_

_My heart wants no other thing._

_Is not sweet music more lovely?_

_I only want to sing._

The sweet elven voice sang softly in perfect pitch, drawing joy from the beautiful melody. It was dark now, but Legolas did not care. If there were any place he could be forever, it would be here, with grass as his bed, and the stars as his blanket. Here, there was no one around, no one who could disturb the calm.

Some guests had retired to bed, and those who remained were well entertained. Master Cuorn and Calenlas had attached Mithrandir's fireworks to arrows, and were enrapturing the crowd with flying sparks released in various ways from their bows. Calenlas had even managed to modify an arrow to fly in a curved motion, thankfully, not coming back at himself or anyone. Of course, Brondil stood at the ready to ensure that all went well.

Melanel also had cakes and pastry to serve those awake with, and no one tired of the fragrant and delicious food. Galion's banishment had been lifted, and, in view of his acts of loyalty to Mirkwood and the King, he was reinstated as butler. Now, he cheerfully served the food, keeping himself occupied so he would not have any chance to be drunk and asleep on the job, and allow yet another security breach (But he was finally persuaded to drink, anyway).

Gilion was also helping to serve the guests, and he did this with the same efficiency as he delivered messages between the realms. And, following the previous incident with the confused letters, he was careful to serve the right dishes to the various elves. Osgaron, meanwhile, lived up to his reputation as a builder, and was in the midst of creating a new musical instrument for Liriel, the musician to try out.

Aragorn was one of those who could never stay awake, and was almost the first to have left the merry-making. Himorn spotted Legolas sneaking out through the side, but the Prince had got much better at eluding him so that he was unable to follow. At least the Prince left another note, neatly-written, where the elf was sure to find, saying that he would be in the fields and did not wish to be disturbed.

So now, peace and quiet was all Legolas got, and he was rather grateful for such simple joys, although in the back of his mind, he might have wished that a certain someone would come. Experiencing the breezes and stars and everything of nature somehow felt incomplete without him.

His prayer was answered as a tall figure strode over and sat beside him, laughing softly at the sight of Legolas lying on the grass in pure contentment.

"_Ada_, weren't you supposed to mingle with the guests?" Legolas asked, sitting up once more.

"It would seem that spending some precious time with my son is far more important," Thranduil said, smiling as he put an arm around the younger elf.

A comfortable silence existed between father and son. Then Thranduil spoke again,

"This song you sing bears much meaning, and even more so now after all these has happened."

Legolas turned, seeing that his father was seemingly lost in some reverie. The reverie that he would soon impart to him now that there was nothing between them.

Flashback

It was another routine patrol, and Thranduil was accompanied by Harthar, Istaril and Cuorn. Carasgon had left Mirkwood, or he would be part of them as well. As they were well within the Mirkwood borders, the patrol unit was kept smaller. Nothing much was expected to happen, after all.

They walked through the woods as though strolling on an outing, chatting and teasing each other. Istaril never failed to bring out points of debate, and Cuorn would seek to make his argument fall. Passing a stream, they stopped to refresh themselves, eating some pastry and drinking of the cooling water, after Harthar had ensured that it was not poisoned. Since the reporting time was still quite a long while away, they could afford the rest, and welcomed it greatly. Even with friends, patrolling was still a tiring task.

It was then that Thranduil saw a sight that revived him instantly.

A young elf was dancing flawlessly in the woods to a song that only she knew, and from that moment, Thranduil knew that he had loved her. Other maidens surrounded her, arrayed in deeper colours, adorned with more jewellery, dancing with more vigour, but Thranduil paid them no attention. He could see that they were more shallow, that their affections, if they had any, would not last long. But she was different.

Her golden hair flowed about her, falling lightly on her shoulders, following her however she moved. In her deep blue eyes, there was an unquenchable sparkle. She was fairer than silver or ivory or pearls and lovely to look upon, perhaps not as much as those around her, but she stood out distinctly above them. Clad in a simple, long, light silvery-blue gown, a sparkling jewel upon her neck, she looked as any other female elf. But there was something else.

Her eyes spoke of wisdom, her nimble movements of unparalleled grace and tenderness. Her dance was simple yet elegant, and her gait was poised. She was barefooted, and leapt on the grass with great delight at its beauty and aroma. A sparrow flew to her, accepting the food she held out in an open hand. She smiled, and her smile was mesmerising; the way her lips curled up gently, how her eyes softened even further, every feature of her involved in a sincere smile.

Then, Istaril called him to resume the patrol, and he turned unwillingly. How had so much time passed in such a short moment? But as Thranduil turned, the female elf smiled enchantingly in his direction. With a deep blush on his face, he carried on the patrol, teased unceasingly especially by Cuorn.

This same lady became his wife. Queen Míriel. She was indeed a rare jewel, and gave him sound counsel. She was gifted in many things, but especially so in music and singing. She could play any instrument the Palace had, and would often do this to soothe the King, or simply to entertain. She sang with the harp, the psaltery and such, with a dazzling light in her face, that many thought her to have come from the Blessed Realm.

She had great foresight and knowledge, understanding beyond her years, and the glow was always resplendent within her. Yet, she never forgot from whence she came from. Song after song, she would sing in praise of her Creator, and oftentimes, she would sing them especially for Thranduil to encourage him.

She had been most unwilling to see him leave before the Battle of Dagorlad.

"I know not what will happen, but I see great evil ahead," she said.

Thranduil tried to comfort her, "Yet will we conquer the evil. The battle will turn in our favour."

Míriel would not be persuaded, but she had to let him leave.

"Come back, melethron nîn," she said finally, "I will prepare a song for you."

And so he had left. But she had been true to her word. She kept his house in good order, ensuring that Mirkwood would not be far affected by the warriors leaving for battle. In her free time, she wrote song after song, but never sang any. For the duration of the battle, no one saw her laugh or smile.

When Thranduil staggered back home, she threw her arms over him, weeping in relief upon his shoulder before finally allowing him to rest. But the battle wore her down. She grew increasingly weary of the world. Nothing seemed to carry much meaning for her within the forests, and she sought ever more to leave for the West. It had taken all of Thranduil's efforts to stay her thus long (and it was not merely the weakness from childbirth or grief over Laeglas' death that had prompted her to set sail).

But her voice was still heard, and she smiled and laughed, though not as before. Thranduil had insisted that she sing for him, and this she did one night, albeit with mock-reluctance. (It was the same song that Legolas sang, even if certain words had been changed. Whoever sang it only found hope and comfort following comprehension of the words, and although Legolas had barely heard it enough, on the occasions when his mother sang to quieten him, to remember much of it, he had captured the essence of the song.)

Husband and wife were in a field (this very same one that they were now in), and there she sang it for him. The melody flowed and penetrated the darkest cloud, reaching throughout the entire realm and bringing relief to all who heard it. The stars twinkled in response and every creature gathered to listen to her praise of Eru Ilúvatar.

End of Flashback

"Because of You, Ilúvatar, we can live on," Thranduil's face told of peaceful bliss as he remembered the joyous times.

Legolas looked at him, imagining what his mother was like. The mother he had barely known, but always thought well of. His father's words only confirmed what he imagined. A beautiful woman, virtuous, seemingly perfect in every way.

Thranduil spoke again, "You are very much like her, Legolas. You're indeed her son."

Legolas nodded, his eyes showing inexpressible joy in them. From generation to generation, much has been lost, but much still remains. It was sad that he had little memory of her, or Laeglas, for that matter, but he would cherish what he had. And they lived ever on in him. Also, it was indeed a comfort that it was not he who had brought his mother's departure. The last puzzle had fallen into place.

His father's arm was still on him, and he moved even closer to his father.

"Sing once more, my son," Thranduil requested.

Legolas smiled and complied, leaning more on his father as he did so. In his heart, he felt a certain warmth and comfort unlike any other filling him from within, and spreading, radiating all over him. He was not alone. He would never, ever be.

_Because of You, my Father true,_

_Because of You, I fear no ill._

_Beholding You, my strength renew_

_Because of You; I'll sing for You._

I Veth

**Final acknowledgements**

§ _Chapter 12, "Spirit of the Sword", contains an extract that was inspired by a non-Western orchestral piece by the same title._

§ _The song "I only want to sing" was inspired by Chloe's song in the Iston, Erfier and Nefredal series._

§ _Thanks a lot to "sell nîn" and gwathel nîn my beloved beta, idea-generator (The inclusion of Mithrandir and Galadriel's revenge), who will, hopefully, join the MC group soon._

§ _Thanks also to my second beta and another gwathel nîn, who never fails to cheer me up or give me a good whack when I need it and even when I don't! Please join the MC group soon, too!_

§ _Thanks to the only dwarf close to my "peredhelian" heart (just what am I writing!), who gave me this idea of elves crafting and using axes, and basically became my weapon-smith._


End file.
